IC-NRLJF 


RGB 
ING- 

J\      TON      M 
JONESi 

Christies  Gi/t 
TK^t  Weixt 


RUTH 

MSENERY 
STUART 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

A   CHRISTMAS   GIFT  THAT 
WENT  A-BEGGING 


"  When  he  jerked  the  bell  at  the  'Lion  Gate  '  he  nearly 
pulled  it  out." 

Sff  page  44. 


GEORGE 
WASHINGTON 
JONES 


A  CHRISTMAS    GIFT 
THAT  WENT  A-BEGGING 


BY 

RUTH  MCENERY  STUART 

AUTHOR   OF  "  NAPOLEON   JACKSON," 

"SONNY,"  "A   GOLDEN    WEDDING," 

"MORIAH'S   MOURNING,"   ETC. 


With   Pictures   by   Edward  Potthast 

PHILADELPHIA 
HENRY  ALT  EMUS          COMPANY 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Henry  Altemus. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  ! 13 

II.  "  SAME  TO  You,  SIR"    ....  24 

III.  THE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD         ...  38 

IV.  SARAH 49 

V.  THE  LIONS'  CALL 59 

VI.  BUTTONS  AND  BRAVERY  ...        76 

VII.  ANGELS  IN  THE  AIR  .        .        ,        .        .85 

VIII.  SIDE-CURLS  AND  OLD-TIME  BEHAVIOR     .        94 

IX.  GEORGE  SEES  A  VISION      .        .        .        .  106 

X.  THE  YOUNG  LADY  OF  THE  GOLD  HARP      117 

XI.  A  BOY  GRANDFATHER        .        .        .        .125 

XII.  How  IT  ALL  CAME  OUT       ...        132 

(vii) 


412643 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  When  he  jerked  the  bell  at  the  '  Lion  Gate ' 
he  nearly  pulled  it  out "       .       Frontispiece 

"  '  Wush't  I  was  a  little  purtier,'  he  lamented"     28 
"  'Black  'em  !' "     .        .        .        .        .        .        .34 

"  *  Yas'm,  I  is  bigger  !'  he  insisted.     '  Hit's  deze 

heah  pants ' "       .        .        .        .        .        .46 

"'A  man  like  dat  oould  easy  be  a  Christmas 

gif"' 128 

(ix) 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

A   CHRISTMAS   GIFT  THAT 
WENT  A-BEGGING 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON 
JONES 

A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  THAT  WENT  A-BEGGING 


CHAPTER  I 

MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

IT  is  sad  to  be  little  and  poor  and  black, 
and  to  have  no  relations. 
It  is  sad  at  any  time,  but  on  Christ 
mas  it  seems  even  more  so,  for  at  this 
blessed  season  all  the  blessed  things  of 
life  appear  to  count  for  more  than  on 
ordinary  days. 
Little  George  Washington  Jones  waked 

[13] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

early  on  Christmas  morning,  and  he  saw 
the  stockings  stuffed  with  toys  hanging 
before  the  mantel— but  he  lay  very  still. 
He  did  not  feel  like  getting  up. 

Even  when  the  other  children  waked 
and  began  scrambling  for  their  stock 
ings,  he  kept  his  eyes  shut  and  did  not 
move,  although  he  did  really  peep  with 
the  eye  next  the  blanket— just  to  see  what 
they  were  getting. 

He  peeped  as  long  as  it  did  any  good 
to  peep;  but  one  can't  see  anything  when 
tears  keep  coming  and  coming,  and  so 
after  awhile  George  just  closed  his  eyes, 
and  didn't  try  to  see  any  more. 

But  he  could  hear.  He  heard  Pete's 
tin  horn  even  before  he  heard  Pete  say, 
"Hello!  List'n  at  my  ho'n!"  And 
presently  he  heard  little  wheels  rattling 
on  the  floor,  and  a  drum,  and  after  a  while 
there  were  loud  reports  of  a  toy  pistol, 

[14] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

and  he  smelled  the  powder,  and  he  said 
to  himself,  "I  hears  Christmas— an'  I 
smells  it,  too!"  which  just  about  ex 
pressed  it. 

And  he  cried  softly—  Vay  down  in  his 
little  stomach  under  the  blankets. 

George  stayed  in  bed  as  long  as  he 
dared— until  he  smelled  the  bacon  frying 
for  breakfast,  in  fact— and  then,  of 
course,  he  had  to  get  up,  and  he  made  a 
brave  effort  to  behave  in  as  natural  a 
way  as  possible,  and  not  to  show  that  he 
felt  lonely.  Indeed,  when  he  went  into 
the  kitchen,  where  the  family  were,  and 
he  saw  all  the  children's  new  Christmas 
things,  he  tried  to  be  pleased. 

And  so  he  was— in  a  way— but  his  lip 
wouldn't  quite  behave  itself  and  stop 
trembling.  And  then  when  little  Tom's 
mother,  Caroline,  said  to  him,  "Let 
George  blow  yo'  horn  a  little  while, 

[15] 


GEORGE  \VASHINGTON  JONES 

son,"  he  couldn't  blow  it  to  save  his 
life. 

And  when  they  all  saw  how  he  felt,  and 
little  Luce  Ann  broke  all  the  stomach  out 
of  her  candy  cow  and  gave  it  to  him,  and 
M'ria  Jane  offered  to  let  him  play  her 
jew's-harp,  and  even  the  baby,  seeing 
that  something  was  wrong,  toddled  up 
and  wanted  to  kiss  him,  he  suddenly 
started  to  bawl  aloud. 

And  then  he  was  ashamed  of  bawling, 
and  began  wiping  his  eyes  on  his  sleeves 
and  saying  "Dog-gone!"  to  try  to  ap 
pear  more  manly. 

And  then  old  Uncle  Ben  called  him 
over  to  where  he  sat  and  patted  him  on 
the  head,  and  said,  " Don't  fret,  honey. 
Gord  knows  best,"  which  was  the  worst 
of  all,  as  it  reminded  him  that  his  grand 
father  had  died  only  three  days  before, 
and  that  he  hadn't  a  relation  in  the 

[16] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

world,  and  was  only  staying  with  "Aunt 
Caroline,"  who  wasn't  his  real  aunt  at 
all,  just  for  a  few  days,  "until  something 
could  be  done  for  him. ' ' 

His  grandfather  had  often  spoken  to 
him  of  "going  home,"  and  told  him  he 
might  have  to  go  suddenly,  and  that  his 
little  grandson  would  be  lonely  for  a  time 
— but  that,  after  a  while,  '  *  it  would  pass 
off." 

And  he  warned  him  that  he  would 
almost  surely  have  hard  times— for  a 
while— harder  than  he  himself  had  ever 
had,  because,  as  he  expressed  it,  he  had 
"lived  in  clover"  all  his  life. 

He  had  been  selected  by  his  master 
from  five  hundred  field  hands,  in  the  old 
slave  days,  and  sent  as  a  Christmas  gift 
to  the  loveliest  and  sweetest  mistress  in 
all  the  world. 

This  was  when  he  was  a  tiny  boy, 

[17] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

younger  than  George,  and  he  had  "f  'om 
dat  time  for'rd,  jest  lived  right  along 
wid  de  quality, ' '  so  he  said. 

The  story  of  his  life  was  one  upon 
which  he  had  loved  to  dwell.  It  was  like 
a  beautiful  fairy-tale,  in  which  the  young 
mistress  was  the  princess  and  old  Solon 
—or  young  Solon,  as  he  was  then— the 
little  black  page  always  at  her  elbow 
when  needed.  Like  most  of  the  old  plan 
tation  stories,  it  ended  with— "  an '  den 
de  war  come." 

The  sad  time  since  the  war  George 
almost  remembered,  or  he  thought  he  did, 
for  his  name  had  been  in  it  whenever  his 
grandfather  told  it;  and  it  was  not  in 
any  way  like  a  fairy  tale. 

Everything  was  different.  The  plan 
tation  was  gone  to  strangers,  and  all  the 
old  white  folks  were  dead,  and  their  chil 
dren  scattered— and  now  even  old  Solon 

[18] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

had  "gone  home,"  too,  and  here  was 
George  left— just  George,  ten  years  old, 
little,  black,  sensitive,  not  very  strong— 
just  George. 

George  knew  that  "Aunt  Ca'line"  had 
all  the  children  she  needed  already,  and 
so  she  wouldn't  want  any  second-hand 
boys— "for  keeps."  It  was  very  kind 
of  her  to  let  him  stay— for  a  while. 

Indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  little  simple- 
hearted  George  Washington  Jones  would 
not  have  been  satisfied  to  belong  to  Aunt 
Ca  'line,  even  if  she  had  wished  it,  and  the 
reason  seems  almost  funny,  until  one  un 
derstands  it. 

It  was  because  she  was  colored. 

He  was  black,  himself,  it  is  true,  and 
so  had  been  his  grandfather  and  all  his 
near  relations,  and  he  never  would  have 
thought  of  objecting  to  the  color  of  his 
own  family. 

[193 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

But  when  it  came  to  attaching  himself 
to  strangers— to  "b'longin',"  as  he  ex 
pressed  it  to  himself —that  was  another 
thing.  All  his  people  had  lived  with 
"folks,"  and  when  an  old-time  darkey 
says  "folks,"  he  means  quality  white 
folks,  "none  o'  yo'  po'  white  trash." 

His  grandfather  had  begun  service 
standing  behind  his  young  mistress's 
chair,  fanning  her,  while  she  practiced 
her  music  lessons,  lifting  the  heavy  books 
from  the  rack  and  putting  them  back,  and 
then  he  had  led  her  horse  to  the  door 
and  arranged  her  skirts  while  she  placed 
her  little  foot  in  the  stirrup,  which  he 
adjusted.  Then  he  had  ridden  behind 
her,  to  be  on  call  if  she  should  need  him. 
And  when  she  had  married  he  had  been 
her  coachman. 

The  little  boy  thought  a  great  deal 
about  all  this  while  he  lay  on  his  pallet 

[20] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

under  Aunt  Ca 'line's  roof.  He  knew 
changes  were  coming  for  him,  and  he 
wondered,  when  all  should  be  settled, 
what  sort  of i  i  folks ' '  he  would  have— and 
how  he  was  to  get  them. 

It  was  while  he  lay  there  two  nights 
before  Christmas  that  a  plan  came  into 
his  mind.  And  while  he  was  turning  it 
over,  Pete,  who  lay  in  the  next  pallet, 
said  aloud:  "Day  after  to-morrow  '11 
be  Christmas."  And  then  all  the  chil 
dren  began  wondering  what  Santa  Claus 
would  fetch  them.  And  some  one  asked 
George  what  he  wanted,  and  he  said  he 
wouldn't  tell.  This  made  them  curious, 
and  so  they  began  guessing. 

"  Is  it  a  toot-horn  ? ' '  said  one. 

"Better  'n  dat!"  replied  George. 

"Is  it  a  wagon?" 

"Better  'ndat!" 

"Is  it  a  roller-horse?" 

[21] 

Washington  Jone*. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"  No,  better  >n  dat!" 

<  <  Well-is  it  gold  1" 

"Better  'ndatl" 

"  Silver  ?" 

"Better  'ndat!" 

"  Diamonds !" 

"Better  'n  dat! " 

"Oh,  shoo!  Dey  ain'  got  no  better  'n 
dat ! ' '  The  guessers  were  impatient,  and 
so  they  changed  the  form  of  their  ques 
tion. 

"Does  you  expec'  to  git  it?"  asked 
Pete,  rising  on  his  elbow.  There  was 
doubt  expressed  ^in  his  question,  and 
George  resented  it. 

"  Yas,  I  expects  to  git  it,"  he  answered, 
with  spirit.  "You  reckon  I  gwine  fool 
my  time  away,  wushin'  for  somVn' 
'nother  I  ain't  got  no  chance  o'  gittin'?" 

Pete  dropped  on  his  pillow  to  think  it 
over,  and  Tom  called  out  from  the  crib: 

[22] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"Who  gwine  to  fetch  it  to  you?  Santa 
Clans !» 

George  hesitated  just  a  moment.  Then 
he  answered: 

' ' Nobody  ain't  gwine  fetch  it  to  me.  I 
wouldn't  trus'  'em.  I  gwine  arter  it 
myself. ' ' 

This  was  really  very  interesting,  and 
if  Pete  and  the  other  children  wondered 
over  it,  so  did  George  himself. 

Under  fire  of  their  persistent  question 
ings,  he  had  rashly  committed  himself  to 
a  plan  which  had  popped  into  his  head 
barely  five  minutes  before,  and  it  was  a 
plan  which  would  change  his  whole  life. 

And  after  this  he  refused  to  say  an 
other  word  on  the  subject.  The  fact  is, 
he  was  too  much  excited  over  it  to  trust 
himself  to  speak  aloud,  and  it  was  one  of 
those  things  which  grow  more  exciting 
the  more  they  are  thought  about. 

[23] 


CHAPTER  II 

"SAME  TO  YOU,  SIB" 

THE  Christmas  gift  which  George  had 
wished  for— that  he  declared  he 
was  going  to  have— was  no  less  than 
this : 

It  was  a  beautiful  young  mistress. 

In  speaking  of  the  great  day  of  his  life, 
his  grandfather  had  often  said:  "Of 
co  'se,  when  I  was  give  to  my  yo  'ng-lady- 
mistus,  by  dat  same  ac'  she  was  give  to 
me,  for  my  Christmus  gif '.  You  can't 
give  a  pusson  a  servant  widout  givin'  de 
servant  a  boss. ' ' 

And  so,  at  this  critical  moment,  when 
his  standing  among  the  children  was 

[24] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

being  impeached,  George  made  the  de 
cision  of  his  life. 

He  would  be  a  Christmas  gift  to  some 
great,  fair  lady  of  high  degree.  There 
were  many  beautiful  women  living  in 
the  handsome  houses  along  Prytania 
Street— in  the  lovely  places  where  the 
lawns  and  stables  and  carriage-ways 
were. 

He  would  simply  start  out  on  Christ 
mas  morning,  ring  the  bell  at  a  gate 
where  one  of  the  " fairy-ladies"  lived, 
and  tell  her  that  he  was  her  Christmas 
gift,  and  that  would  settle  it. 

He  became  suddenly  so  full  of  the  idea 
that  he  slipped  away  after  breakfast  and 
took  a  long  walk,  studying  up  the  differ 
ent  places,  so  as  to  decide  where  to  go 
next  morning. 

There  was  one,  which  was  very  tempt 
ing,  where  a  crowd  of  boys  played  in  the 

[25] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

yard,  but  it  did  not  satisfy  his  imagina 
tion. 

To  do  this  there  would  have  to  be  the 
young  mistress,  a  sweet  "  beauty-lady, " 
and  he  would  like  her  to  have  long  yellow 
curls,  and,  if  possible,  he  would  have  her 
play  on  a  gilt  harp,  as  his  "grand- 
daddy's  mistus"  had  done. 

Of  course,  however,  he  could  not  insist 
on  the  harp.  When  young  ladies  played 
the  harp,  in  all  probability  they  gener 
ally  played  it  indoors,  and  little  colored 
boys  passing  along  the  street  couldn't 
tell  of  a  certainty  who  played  harps  and 
who  didn't. 

George  walked  a  long  way  this  morn 
ing—up  one  side  of  the  street  and  down 
the  other,  but  he  could  not  make  up  his 
mind.  When  he  got  home  supper  was 
ready,  but  as  soon  as  it  was  over  he 
slipped  to  the  garret-room,  and,  going  to 

[26] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

his  little  hair-trunk,  selected  his  "  Sun 
day  clo  'es, ' '  and  began  trying  them  on. 

He  wanted  to  realize  what  manner  of 
Christmas  gift  he  was  going  to  appear. 
The  "pants"  had  belonged  to  a  bigger 
boy  before  they  became  his,  and  they  had 
to  be  "gallused  up"  pretty  high;  and  the 
coat  was  rather  short  in  the  sleeves ;  and 
his  shoes  were  not  mates,  one  being  black 
and  the  other  tan.  But  he  had  a  white 
shirt  which  he  had  worn  only  once— to 
his  grandfather's  funeral— and  a  mili 
tary  cap— and  when  he  presently  glanced 
at  himself  in  the  mirror  of  the  children's 
bureau,  he  said:  "White  shirts  and 
soljer  caps  dey  sho'  does  set  a  pusson 
off!" 

A  great  many  poor  children,  both 
black  and  white,  wore  old  soldier  caps  in 
those  days,  gray  or  blue  left-overs  from 
the  war,  just  as  they  happened  to  get 

[27] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

them.  George's  was  blue,  and  it  had  a 
bullet-hole  in  it  which  made  him  feel  very 
dangerous  whenever  he  wore  it. 

The  cracks  in  the  old  mirror  divided 
him  into  sections  as  he  strutted  before  it, 
but,  by  a  very  simple  effort  of  the  im 
agination,  he  reconstructed  a  very  pre 
sentable  "little  nigger. " 

He  thought  of  himself  in  this  way, 
because  he  remembered  that  when  his 
grandfather  was  sent  as  a  Christmas 
present,  there  was  a  little  paper  tied  to 
his  arm  by  a  blue  ribbon,  and  on  it  were 
written  these  lines : 

"I'm  a  little  Christinas  nigger, 
I  ain't  very  big, 
But  I  '11  soon  grow  bigger." 

These  lines  were  written  as  a  playful 
introduction  by  his  young  mistress's 
father,  and  were  merrily  received. 

George  would  have  liked  a  "po'try 

[28] 


"  '  Wush't  I '  w >as  a  little  pur  tier  *  he  lamented." 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

verse ' '  of  his  own  making  to  pin  to  him 
self,  but  that  was  impossible,  as  he  barely 
knew  his  primer.  He  could  recite  these 
same  lines,  though,  as  he  approached  the 
young  lady  of  his  choice,  and  so  he  would. 

He  was  a  "little  nigger, "  and  they 
would  just  suit. 

He  moved  back  a  few  paces,  courtesied 
to  the  glass,  and,  after  slowly  repeating 
the  words,  he  stopped  and  critically  sur 
veyed  himself. 

"Wush'tl  was  a  little  purtier,"  he 
lamented,  low  in  his  throat  but  quite 
seriously;  "but  maybe  she  won't  mind, 
ef  I  step  high  an'  ac'  mannerly. " 

At  which,  squaring  his  shoulders,  he 
strutted  back  and  forth  several  times. 

When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  he  felt 
in  better  spirits,  and,  slipping  off  his 
clothes  and  hiding  them  away  again,  he 
got  into  bed  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  He 

[29] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

could  not  trust  himself  to  meet  any  of  the 
children  again  to-night.  "I  got  too  bad 
a  'tackt  o'  de  dry  grins— dey'd  know 
som'h'n'  was  up!"  he  chuckled  to  his 
pillow,  as  he  shut  his  eyes. 

And  presently,  when  he  was  about  half- 
w^ay  to  dreamland,  he  seemed  to  see  his 
grandfather's  face,  looking  at  him 
proudly,  and  he  thought : 

"Yas,  an'  he'll  be  prouder  yit  ef  he 
looks  down  on  me  day  after  to-morrer 
an'  sees  me  wid  my  new  folks." 

And  by  this  time  he  was  all  the  way 
into  the  dream  country,  and  he  saw  him 
self  a  serious  little  black  boy  in  a  Conti 
nental  coat  and  knee  breeches  and  with  a 
feather  in  his  hat,  following  behind  the 
new  mistress  and  carrying  her  book,  just 
as  his  grandfather  had  so  often  described 
himself  as  doing  in  the  old  days. 

And  instead  of  Aunt  Caroline's  roof, 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

there  seemed  beautiful  arching  trees 
above  his  head,  and  when  he  turned  in 
his  sleep  and  a  real  mocking-bird  sang 
lustily  under  the  moon  in  the  honey 
suckle  vine  outside  Caroline's  window, 
he  thought  it  came  from  the  branches  of 
the  dream-trees,  loud  and  clear  above  the 
noise  of  hoofs  and  carriage  wheels  rat 
tling  up  the  drive  to  the  great  house— all 
in  the  dreamland. 

It  seems  strange  that  after  going  to 
bed  with  so  brave  a  heart  and  dreaming 
dreams  so  splendid,  he  should  have  been 
so  easily  upset  in  the  morning ;  but  when 
he  saw  the  cheap  toys  sticking  out  of  the 
stockings,  mocking  him  with  their  wooden 
elbows  and  their  curved  eyebrows,  some 
thing  unusual  seemed  to  happen  Vay 
down  in  his  little  inside,  and  everything 
went  wrong  for  some  minutes.  So  he 
thrust  his  head  under  the  cover  and  let 

[31] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

the  trouble  sob  itself  away  quietly,  and 
he  said  in  his  mind,  "Ef  I  had  des  a 
f-f-few  folks— even  ef  dey  was  col 
ored—7'  And  just  about  then  it  was 
that  the  other  children  waked  and  the 
great  day  began. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  George  felt 
in  better  spirits,  and  he  said  to  himself, 
*  '  Time  for  me  to  be  gwine— ef  I  'm  gwine 
—an7  I  sho'  is  gwine— ef  de  court  knows 
itse'f."  And  he  even  whistled  softly 
while  he  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  garret 
and  began  to  dress  for  his  journey. 

When  he  was  ready,  he  selected  a  few 
cherished  things  from  his  grandfather's 
' '  remaindings, "  tied  them  with  his  sur 
plus  garments  in  an  old  bandana  hand 
kerchief,  attached  the  bundle  to  his  um 
brella,  "  'cazen  it  mought  rain,"  and 
swinging  it  before  him,  he  climbed  out 
on  the  roof,  let  himself  down  through  a 

[32] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

fig-tree  into  the  yard,  and  was  soon  out 
in  the  street,  his  bundle  over  his  shoulder. 

As  he  looked  down  at  his  feet,  he  re 
gretted  that  his  shoes  were  not  mates, 
and  he  suddenly  remembered  that  an  old 
cobbler  and  shoeblack,  who  lived  around 
the  corner,  had  once  spoken  pleasantly 
to  him,  and  he  thought  it  would  be  well 
just  to  pass  by  there. 

The  old  man  had  moved  his  chair 
inside  to-day,  but  he  sat  within  his 
door. 

George  walked  very  slowly  until  he 
was  just  opposite  him,  and  then  he 
stopped  short  and  looked  down  at  his  own 
shoes— and  then  at  the  bootblack. 

Mr.  Pat  Foley's  little  blue  eyes 
twinkled. 

"Good  moornin'  to  ye!  An'  a  merry 
Christmas  an'  a  happy  New  Year,  an' 
manny  returns  av  the  same!"  he  said, 

[33] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

playfully,  and  then,  following  the  sug 
gestion  of  the  boy's  glances,  he  added: 

"I  see  ye  Ve  brought  me  a  job— an '  a 
bully  job  it  is!  Whip  off  yer  soljer  cap 
and  shtep  in ! ' ' 

"I  ain't  got  no  money, "  said  the  boy, 
hesitatingly.  Then,  seeing  that  Mr. 
Foley  was  not  appalled  by  his  confessed 
poverty,  he  hastened  to  add : 

"But  I  'spec's  to  be  a  heap  richer- 
after  to-day— ef  you  'd  trus'  me— 

' '  Thrust  northin ' ! "  laughed  Pat,  ' '  but 
if  ye  '11  ascind  the  chair  av  state,  sure 
I  '11  give  ye  a  shine  for  yer  Christmas,  so 
Iwull." 

And,  as  the  boy,  grinning,  took  his  seat, 
he  added: 

"Which  '11  it  be,  now?  Wull  I  black 
the  tan  boot  or  tan  the  congress  gaiter  1 ' ' 

"Which  does  you  think  would  look  de 
purtiest?" 

[34] 


'Black 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

George  extended  both  feet  for  consid 
eration  as  he  spoke. 

"Well,  that  depinds,"  advised  Pat. 
1 '  Forr  a  picnic  or  a  thrip  on  a  yacht,  I  'd 
tan  the  black  one,  but  if  I  was  starrtin' 
out  forr  a  prisentation  to  a  queen,  sure, 
I  'd  have  the  two  o '  thim  nately  blacked. ' ' 

" Black  'em!"  snapped  George,  and, 
as  Pat  polished  away,  he  added,  timidly : 

"Dey  ain't  no  way  o'  tightenin'  up  de 
injine-rubber  at  de  sides  o '  de  gaiter-one, 
is  dey!" 

"Don't  touch  that  for  yer  life!"  re 
plied  Pat.  "Injian-rubber  is  like  a 
man's  conscience.  Let  go  av  ut,  an1 
you  've  a  bad  job.  But  that  shoe  be 
comes  you  turrible,  all  the  same — it  wuth 
its  partner  across  the  way.  Sure, 
they  're  like  enough  for  joy.  The  hap 
piest  couples  in  life  do  be  contrasts,  wan 
ag'in'  the  other.  If  I  was  gettin'  ye  for 

[35] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

a  Christmas  present,  now,  to  shtand  up 
on  me  mantel-shelf,  I  wouldn't  take 
northin'  for  the  comical  expression  o' 
thim  two  shoes. ' ' 

The  boy  looked  quickly  into  Pat's  face. 

"How  'd  you  know  about  it?"  he 
asked,  eagerly. 

"Know  about  what!"  said  Pat. 

"Why,  'bout  me  bein'  a  Christmas 
gif!  I  ain't  told  nobody.  De^way  you 
see  what's  in  my  head,  you  mus'  be  hoo 
dooed.  ' '  He  was  grinning  all  over. 

1 '  Sure  an '  I  am  that !  Ye  done  ut  wud 
yer  beauty ! ' ' 

Pat's  shoulders  shook  with  laughter, 
and  as  he  put  a  finishing  touch  to  the 
shoes,  he  added : 

"I  always  know  a  lad  that  's  borrn  av 
a  Christmas  be  the  look  in  his  eye— an' 
the  way  Tils  hair  currls!  Well,  there  's 
blessin'  in  a  holy  day,  sure!  Here  's 

[36] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

good  luck  to  ye— an'  hopin'  to  see  ye 
better  shod  for  life 's  journey ! ' ' 

"He  don't  know  nuthin'  about  it,  after 
all,"  George  chuckled  while  he  strode 
out  the  door,  grinning  appreciation  even 
before  he  said,  replacing  his  cap  while 
he  turned  into  the  street,  "Same  to  you, 
Mister!" 

This  was  one  of  his  best  "mannerly 
answers,"  carefully  taught  him  by  his 
grandfather,  who  had  assured  him  that 
it  was  always  a  safe  thing  to  say,  as  it 
was  quite  as  able  to  turn  an  insult  back 
where  it  belonged  as  to  answer  blessings 
in  kind. 

And  so,  when  the  boy  reached  the  cor 
ner  and,  looking  back,  saw  Pat  wave  his 
hand  to  him  from  his  door,  he  lifted  his 
cap  and  called  back  again,  quite  loudly 
this  time  i 

"Same  to  you,  sir!" 

[37] 

S — George  Washington  Jones. 


I 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD 

T  was  a  lovely  Christmas  day,  warm 
with  a  sweet  flower-scented  breeze 
from  the  gardens  along  Prytania  Street 
—everybody  in  New  Orleans  knows 
about  Christmases  like  this — and  when 
the  Christmas  gift  started  down  between 
the  handsome  houses  that  face  the  street 
on  either  side,  he  held  his  head  high,  but 
his  heart  thumped  so  that  he  panted  a 
little. 

But  he  would  get  over  this,  as  there 
was  no  hurry.  He  could  ring  any  gate 
bell  any  minute,  and  before  you  could 
say  Jack  Eobinson  he  would  belong  on 
the  inside. 

[38] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

There  was  a  big  house  somewhere,  with 
two  lions  of  stone  guarding  the  front 
steps.  If  he  could  find  this  place  to-day, 
he  would  ask  if  a  yellow-haired  lady  who 
played  on  a  gilt  harp  lived  there,  and,  if 
so,  he  would  make  his  bow  and  his  speech 
— and  the  thing  would  be  done. 

While  he  was  thinking  of  this  and  say 
ing  to  himself,  "I  wonder  do  dem  rock 
lions  think  I  be  a-skeered  of  'em, ' '  there 
came  out  upon  the  porch  of  one  of  the 
fine  houses  a  lovely  young  lady,  who 
began  to  gather  roses  from  the  trellis. 

"I  '11  take  you— harp  or  no  harp,"  he 
said  to  himself,  and  hesitating  just  a  min 
ute  to  get  a  good  breath,  he  reached  up 
and  pulled  the  gate  bell.  And  at  that 
moment  exactly,  she  disappeared  in  the 
door  and  a  fat  black  woman  answered 
his  ring. 

"Huccome  you  foolin'  wid  dat  bell,  you 

[39] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

sassy  nigger?"  she  called,  angrily;  so 
angrily  that  George  decided  that  he 
was  n't  decided  whether  he  wanted  to  go 
there  to  live  or  not,  and  so  he  said : 

' l  Do  de  young  lady  wha '  live  heah  play 
on  de  jew's-harp?" 

He  meant  "gold  harp,"  and  in 
deed  he  thought  he  had  said  it.  George 
was  quite  a  performer  on  the  lesser  in 
strument,  but  his  own  heart-strings  were 
trembling  so  that  he  was  like  a  troubled 
little  harp  himself,  and  no  harp  ever 
knows  more  than  to  tremble  when  it  is 
struck. 

"Jew's-harp!"  the  woman  repeated, 
contemptuously.  "You  's  a-passin' 
yourself  in  at  de  wrong  gate.  Git  away 
f'omheah!  Scat!" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  George  found 
courage  to  stop  again;  but  after  a  while 
an  open  gate  tempted  him  and  he  walked 

[40] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

blandly  in,  hoping  that  a  fair-haired 
princess  might  herself  open  the  door, 
which,  indeed,  she  happened  to  do,  bnt 
when  she  looked  down  at  him  and 
said:  "Well?"  in  a  freezing  tone,  he 
couldn't  have  made  his  speech  to  save 
his  life. 

"Well?"  she  repeated.  "What  do 
you  want?" 

And  he  answered  rapidly:  "I  don't 
want  nothin'!  I  was  des  a-passin' 
by  an'  I— I  thought  I'd  drap  in  an'— 
an'-" 

He  had  already  turned  to  go,  when  he 
heard  her  say  to  a  servant : 

"Take  him  around  to  the  kitchen. 
Maybe  he 's  hungry. ' ' 

This  was  not  pleasant  in  the  circum 
stances,  and,  although  it  was  a  most  im 
polite  thing  to  do,  he  called  out  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  neared  the  gate : 

[41] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"I  ain't  no  beggar!  I  come  to  fetch 
you  a  present— but  I  done  changed  my 
mind!" 

At  two  other  places  the  servants  re 
fused  to  show  him  in  unless  he  would  tell 
his  errand,  and  as  he  would  not  offer 
himself  to  a  mistress  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  he  had  to  go  away. 

All  this  took  up  time,  and,  besides,  it 
used  up  courage,  which  was  even  more 
serious.  When  he  had  been  walking  an 
hour,  he  had  not  offered  himself  to  any 
body.  But  he  kept  walking. 

The  streets  were  filling  with  people 
going  to  church,  many  of  them  beautiful 
ladies  with  kind  faces,  and  he  said  to  him 
self :  "I  sho'  is  got  a  daisy  lot  to  pick 
an'  choose  from." 

The  trouble  was  he  could  not  pru 
dently  approach  them  on  the  street,  not 
knowing  what  sort  of  houses  they  lived 

[42] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

in— and  when  they  went  into  church  he 
lost  them. 

He  was  getting  pretty  tired,  and  so, 
when,  after  a  few  more  rebuffs,  he  rang 
another  bell,  he  called  out:  "Want  a 
boy  in  heah?"  The  Christmas  gift  part 
he  could  bring  in  afterward— if  the  lady 
suited. 

But  the  gate  slammed  on  the  servant's 
'  '  No ! "  and,  shivering,  he  passed  on. 

There  was  a  sweet-looking  young  lady 
ahead  of  him  once,  and  he  hastened  to 
overtake  her.  "Lady,"  he  said,  at  her 
elbow,  "does  you  know  air  nice  white 
'oman  wha'  want  a  lakly  boy— about  my 
size— for  a  Chr— 

Before  George  could  finish  his  sentence 
she  had  dropped  a  nickel  in  his  hand  and 
hurried  on.  The  boy  looked  at  the  coin 
and  his  eyes  filled. 

"Huccome  dey  all  takes  me  f  or  a  beg- 

[43] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

gar,"  lie  said  aloud,  "wid  dis— dis  white 
sliirt  on— an'— an '  all  deze  clo'es?" 

A  real  beggar,  placarded  "Blind,"  sat 
with  a  tin  cup  beside  him  against  a  fence 
near,  and  George,  seeing  that  when  he 
glanced  at  the  tin  cup  it  moved  toward 
him,  looked  hard  at  it,  and  then  at  the 
nickel. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  fruit-stand  across 
the  way,  and  when  he  presently  passed 
down  the  other  side  there  were  five 
bananas  in  his  hand— and  then  four— and 
by  the  time  he  reached  the  gate  where  the 
lions  were,  five  empty  banana  skins  lay 
along  the  gutter,  and  their  recent  fillings 
were  being  converted  into  courage,  and 
the  courage  was  fast  permeating  George 
"Washington  Jones;  so  that  when  he 
jerked  the  bell  at  the  "lion  gate,"  he 
nearly  pulled  it  out,  and  a  great  old  dog 
barked  at  him  so  suddenly  that  when  the 

[44] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

servant  came  to  the  gate  there  was  no 
one  there. 

George  was  already  asking  the  gar 
dener  at  the  second  gate  beyond  if  his 
mistress  did  n  't  need  a  little  boy. 

She  did  not  need  one. 

Nobody  answered  the  next  bell,  or  the 
next,  and  at  the  one  beyond,  George  called 
out  to  a  servant : 

"Ask  de  lady  o'  de  house  do  she  want 
a  Christmas  gif  of  a  liandy  little 
bo-o-o-y!"  and  as  he  said  it,  his  lip  quiv 
ered  dangerously. 

She  didn't  want  one,  either.  And 
after  this  he  offered  himself  frankly  at 
all  the  best  houses. 

It  was  growing  late,  and  his  umbrella 
and  bundle  were  getting  heavier  and 
heavier.  Besides,  if  the  mistresses 
matched  the  houses  and  the  gardens,  al 
most  any  one  of  them  would  do  now. 

[45} 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

But  evidently  boys  were  not  in  de 
mand.  Nobody  wanted  one— not  even  as 
a  gift. 

At  several  houses  the  people  laughed 
at  the  idea,  and  asked  him  a  question  or 
two,  and  gave  him  a  cake  or  an  apple. 
One  lady  did  say  that  she  might  try  him, 
if  he  were  only  a  little  bigger,  whereupon 
George  declared  he  was  bigger! 

"Yas  'm,  I  is  BIGGEK!"  he  insisted. 
"Hit  's  deze  heah  pants!  Dey  make  me 
look  little — day  got  so  much  room  in 
'em!" 

And  then  remembering  his  poem,  he 
placed  his  hand  on  his  breast  and  recited 
it  bravely.  The  assembled  family  fairly 
screamed  with  delight  over  his  perform 
ance,  and  told  him  that  if  he  would  come 
around  later  when  the  men  of  the  family 
were  at  home,  and  do  it  over  again,  they 
would  give  him  his  dinner  and  a  dollar. 

[46] 


"  '  Yas' mt  I  is  bigger  T  he  insisted.     ' Hit1  s  deze 
heah  pants.'  ' 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

They  seemed  to  think  the  whole  thing 
was  a  joke. 

Evidently  they  did  not  know  about 
old-time  quality  ways. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  when  George 
turned  out  of  the  avenue  of  noble  houses 
into  a  side  street. 

His  stomach  was  full  of  assorted  gra 
tuities,  and  it  ached  with  the  unfriendli 
ness  thereof.  He  did  not  know  what  else 
to  do,  and  so  he  walked  on. 

The  neighborhood  thinned  out,  and 
cheapened  as  he  went,  and  after  a  while 
the  heads  of  families  sat  in  shirt  sleeves 
on  the  front  stoops,  and  some  of  them 
were  colored. 

At  one  gate  there  was  an  empty  bench, 
and  he  sat  down.  Of  course,  it  was  fool 
ish  to  come  out  here,  but  the  very  thought 
of  ringing  any  more  bells  on  the  avenue 
sickened  him. 

[47] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

He  would  not  go  back  to  Aunt  Ca'line 
and  face  the  children  until  he  should  have 
something  to  tell.  Of  course,  he  would 
go  then.  He  looked  out  toward  the 
swamp  and  back  to  the  avenue,  and  two 
great  tears  came  slowly  into  his  eyes— 
and  ran  over. 


[483 


CHAPTER  IV 

SARAH 

AND  just  then  a  fat,  brown  woman 
wearing  a  purple  calico  dress  came 
out  of  the  gate  and  sat  beside  him. 
And  when  she  saw  his  tears  and  his  bun 
dle  and  his  old  shoes,  she  took  her  apron 
and  wiped  his  eyes  and  said,  softly : 

' '  Nemmine. ' ' 

And  George  put  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
sobbed,  while  she  smoothed  his  hair  with 
her  warm  hand,  and  she  wiped  her  own 
eyes. 

Dark  comes  suddenly  on  Christmas, 
and  when,  after  a  while,  Sarah,  the 
brown  woman,  walked  into  the  house, 

[49] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

with  her  arm  around  the  boy,  she  lit  her 
candle.  Then  she  took  off  his  cap  and 
hung  it  up,  and  laid  his  bundle  on  a  little 
bed. 

The  two  must  have  talked  it  all  out 
on  the  little  bench  at  the  gate,  for 
they  seemed  to  understand  each  other. 
After  she  lit  the  candle,  she  went  pres 
ently  and  fetched  a  small  tintype  and  put 
it  in  George's  hand.  It  was  the  picture 
of  a  little  black  boy. 

"Dis  is  him,"  she  said,  "befo*  he  was 
took  sick."  And  then  she  added: 
"When  I  looked  out  an'  saw  yo'  little 
legs  hangin'  under  the  bench,  it  seemed 
like  he  had  come  back  to  me.  You  favors 
him  consid'ble— in  the  legs.  Yo'  folks 
must  'a'  made  you  loney  too  soon." 

"B-but  he  was  a  heap  purtier  'n  what 
I  is,"  George  stammered.  And  the 
woman,  looking  him  over,  said:  "You  'd 

[50] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

look  mighty  difF ent,  baby,  git  a  bandy 
'oman  aliolt  o'  you— wid  a  few  but 
tons—  "  And  presently  she  added: 
"Dat  boughten  suit  he  's  got  on  in  de 
picture— I  got  it  put  away— it  'd  jes' 
about  fit  you,  but,  of  co'se,  less  'n  you 
was  a  mighty  good  boy—  " 

"I  'm  feared  I  ain't  good  enough— not 
fer  dat,"  George  replied,  thoughtfully. 
"I  sins  awful  sometimes.  Des  a  while 
ago  I  sassed  a  white  'oman,  caze  I 
thought  she  scorned  me  wid  her  eye. 
An'  den  I  see  she  was  cross-eyed." 

"Den  you  ought  to  tol'  her  dat  you 
was  sorry,  boy." 

"I  would  'a'  done  it,  but  she  up  an' 
flung  a  brickbat  at  me.  She  was  a  Irish 
lady." 

There  were  two  at  supper  that  night 
in  Sarah's  cabin,  and  when  she  went  to 
set  the  table,  she  hesitated  some  time 

[51J 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

before  she  took  from  the  cupboard  a  little 
tin  plate  with  the  alphabet  pressed  into 
its  rim,  and  set  it  beside  her  own.  And 
when  George  began  spelling  his  name  on 
the  plate,  she  made  an  excuse  to  go  back 
to  the  cupboard  for  something  she  did  not 
need,  and  when  she  came  back  she  filled 
his  glass,  although  it  was  only  half 
emptied. 

Notwithstanding  the  late  lamented 
bananas  and  their  hasty  and  disastrous 
burial,  George  ate  heartily,  but  the 
woman  only  minced,  and  often  she  looked 
tenderly  at  the  boy  beside  her— but  the 
face  she  saw  was  the  one  in  the  tintype. 

It  was  a  cozy  little  supper,  and  after  it 
was  over  she  and  her  small  guest  sat  and 
talked  as  those  talk  who  have  always 
known  each  other. 

It  was  still  early  when  she  put  him  to 
bed— for  she  saw  that  he  was  very  tired. 

[52] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

He  must  have  confided  his  whole  plan 
to  her,  for  while  she  tucked  him  in  she 
was  saying : 

"Yes,  I  know  de  lady  at  de  lion  gate; 
she  's  lookin'  for  a  little  boy— to  bresh 
de  flies  off  'n  her,  an'  hunt  her  spec's,  an' 
—what  dat  you  say?  No,  dey  ain't  no 
yo'ng  misses  in  dat  house.  An'  de  ole 
lady,  she  's  mighty  deef  and  religious. 
But  she  's  lookin'  for  a  hones'  little 
boy  widout  no  kin— and  I  know  she  'd 
take  you  in  a  minute.  An'  you  could 
straddle  de  lions  and  play  horsey  on  'em, 
when  you  war  n't  busy— an'  you  'd  have 
brass  buttons,  an'  tote  a  silver  tray— an' 
take  in  de  ladies'  visitin'  tickets— an'  : 

She  leaned  beside  him  on  the  bed  now, 
and,  remembering  his  little  colic,  she  was 
rubbing  her  hand  gently  over  his  body 
as  she  spoke. 

"An'  ef  you  stays  wid  me,"  she  con- 

[53] 

4 — George  Washington  Jones. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

tinned,  "you  know  I  takes  in  washin',  an' 
you  'd  haf  to  help  me  lif '  my  tubs  an' 
empty  suds— an '  tote  clo'es  back  an1 
fo'th,  too,  sometimes.  My  little  Joe,  lie 
was  jes'  as  stiddy  as  a  man.  He  could 
count  change— an'  tell  time  by  de  clock— 
but,  of  co  'se,  you  'd  learn  all  dat. ' ' 

George  did  not  answer  right  off,  but 
presently  he  said:  "I— I— I  ain't  dissi 
pated,  no  ways— but  I  ain't  sho'  ef  I  'm 
stiddy  or  not,  b-b-but  I  kin  tell  time!  I 
got  gran 'daddy's  silver  watch— and  I  got 
his  spec's,  too.  An'  maybe  dey  mought 
suit  yo'  eyes— ef— ef— " 

Neither  one  said  anything  for  quite  a 
while,  and  then  the  boy  spoke  again. 
"Sposen  I  was  to  stay  w-w-wid  you, 
right  along,  des  so,  wh-wh-what  kin 
would  you  be  to  me  1 ' ' 

She  leaned  nearer  him  as  she  answered. 


[54] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"I  M  be  des  same  as  yo'  mammy, 
baby." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then  he 
spoke  again: 

"And  does  mammies  rnb  dey  little 
boys'  belly-aches  away  dis-a-way,  lak 
you  rubbin'  mine  ? ' ' 

' '  Dey  does,  ef  it  eases  'em,  honey.  He 
used  to  like  me  to  rub  his  little  pains 
when  he  over-e't,  or  ef  he  was  chilled, 
maybe— but  ef  it  frets  you—"  She 
began  taking  her  hand  away,  but  he 
caught  it  in  both  his  and  drew  it  back. 

' '  Keep  orn, ' '  he  muttered. 

As  she  began  stroking  his  body  again, 
he  turned  his  head,  not  seeming  to  know 
that  he  did  it,  until  it  just  fitted  into  the 
soft  warm  place  beneath  her  chin — 
against  her  breast  and  shoulder. 

"An7— an'— an '  wh— wh— what  kin 
would  I  be  to— to  you?"  he  sobbed  after 

[55] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES   

a  while.  She  took  a  long  time  to  answer 
this.  And  then  she  said: 

* '  You  jes '  be  my  little  boy. ' '  And  in  a 
minute  she  added:  ;* Did  n't  you  take 
notice  to  dat  little  plate  I  give  you  to  eat 
yo'  supper  out  'n?  He  used  to  spell  his 
name  on  dat  plate,  an'  when  I  set  it  out 
for  you,  I  say  to  myself:  'Ef  he  spells 
his  titles  out  on  it  I  '11  take  it  for  a  sign 
from  Heaven'— dat  is,  of  co'se,  ef  yon 
wants  to  stay." 

For  answer,  a  thin,  black  arm  came 
from  under  the  cover  and  lay  over  the 
woman's  shoulder,  and  had  he  not 
fallen  under  the  mantle  of  sleep  while 
she  talked  so  long,  into  her  ear  would 
have  come  a  faint  whisper :  "I  gwine  to 
stay. "  As  it  was,  the  words  were  never 
formed,  even  in  his  heart,  where  sweet 
surrender  of  sleep  held  sway. 

And  she  suddenly  knew  by  his  regular 

[56] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

breathing  that  he  slept,  and  she  laid 
her  cheek  against  his  hair,  and  wet  it  with 
her  tears. 

When  she  had  presently  lifted  his 
head,  and  with  soft,  undisturbing  mater 
nal  touch,  laid  it  back  upon  the  pillow, 
she  returned  to  the  table  in  the  other 
room  and  looked  at  the  little  plate  and 
the  tintype,  and  she  felt  the  edge  of  her 
old  sorrow  anew,  and  she  wiped  her  eyes 
with  her  apron  while  she  cleared  the 
table,  and  set  back  her  own  boy's  particu 
lar  chair,  and  hung  the  blue  soldier  cap 
beside  the  bit  of  faded  felt  still  limply 
shaped  to  her  boy's  head  behind  the  door. 

She,  did  not  sit  and  think  or  plan  to 
night.  She  was  tired  and  sleepy,  and 
although  the  personal  touch  of  the  child 
so  like  her  own  had  been  to  her  almost 
like  the  opening  of  a  grave,  she  did  not 
forget  to  put  her  clothes  to  soak,  or  to 

[57] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

water  the  pot  of  sweet  basil  which  she 
kept  in  her  front  window. 

Before  going  to  her  own  bed,  however, 
she  sto'pped  beside  the  sleeping  boy.  She 
even  lifted  his  clothes  from  the  chair  be 
side  the  bed  and  held  them  up  before  her. 

"De  two  sho'  does  favor, "  she  said, 
softly.  "Dey  favors  in  ways  mo'  'ndey 
do  in  looks,  even.  An'  I  see  he  ain't  no 
slouch,  nuther.  De  seat  o '  de  breeches  is 
good  enough,  but  dey  thin  at  de  knees. 
He  keeps  gwine,  an'— an'— what  's  dis?" 

She  had  slipped  her  fingers  into  his 
pocket. 

"Strings  an'  nails!  I  declare!  Dey 
sho'  does  favor!  Even  to  what  dey  '11 
pick  up  an'  cherish.  Po'  little  man!  I 
wonder  is  God  A 'mighty  done  tooken 
notice  to  my  cravin— an'  sont  de  chile  to 
me— to  stay.  I  wonders!" 


[58] 


I 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  LIONS'  CALL 

T  was  fortunate  that  sleep  had  over 
taken  the  tired  child  just  at  the  mo 
ment  when  all  his  little  bodily  ills  were 
being  ministered  to,  and  his  heart 
soothed  into  forgetfulness,  for  otherwise, 
in  committing  himself  fully  to  the  new 
and  grateful  relationship  so  sincerely 
and  yet  so  insidiously  offered,  as  he 
surely  would  have  done,  he  would  have 
made  a  mistake. 

For  when  he  had  waked  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  after  a  single  bewildered  mo 
ment  recovered  his  bearings,  things 
began  rapidly  to  resume  their  former 
values. 

[59] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

Before  everything  else,  he  was,  of 
course,  his  grandfather's  grandson. 

When  the  whole  boy  was  awake,  and 
rested,  not  only  his  weary  physical  part, 
but  his  alert  spirit  and  his  ambitions, 
there  came  with  the  awakening  a  sudden 
humiliating  sense  of  failure. 

Sarah's  home  was  quite  comfortable, 
and  her  loving  ministrations  were  most 
disarming,  and  yet,  her  poor  washer 
woman's  cabin,  never  free  from  a  subtle 
odor  of  the  tubs,  had  to  bear  comparison 
in  the  boy's  keen  mind  with  affluent 
homes  in  which  it  seemed  to  be  literally 
noble  service  to  only  stand  and  wait. 

There  were  many  such,  almost  cer 
tainly  easily  within  reach,  and  the  fact 
that  the  sentimental  entry  which  he  had 
tried  to  make  had  proven  a  failure  in  the 
differing  conditions  did  not  prove  the  boy 
unfit  for  such  honorable  service  as  had 

[60] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

cheered  an  old  man's  life,  even  in  the 
memory  of  it. 

The  first  thing  George  did  was  to 
throw  into  the  fire  the  bit  of  paper  on 
which  he  had  laboriously  printed  his  gift 
speech.  He  had  provided  himself  with 
this  to  bring  forth  in  case  of  nervous  fail 
ure  of  speech  which  sometimes  set  him 
stammering. 

He  slipped  it  under  the  kettle  when 
Sarah  was  not  looking  his  way,  and  as 
he  did  so,  seeing  her  leave  the  room,  he 
mumbled : 

"I  wonder  ef  Gord  took  de  trouble  to 
look  on,  an'  see  what  a  Christmas  fool  I 
made  o'  myself, "  and  he  continued  in 
thought,  "de  nex'  time  I  goes,  I  '11  go  wid 
common  sense  an'  week-day  manners. 
Why— ef  a  boy  o'  my  size  had  'a 'come 
up  to  me  and  axed  me  to  tek  him  for  a 
Christmas  present— an'  no  better  regu- 

[61] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

lated  in  his  clones— I  'd  V  knoived  he 
was  crazy." 

His  idea  nowwas  to  make  dignified  and 
judicious  application  for  work— such 
work  as  would  honor  the  proud  old  man 
who  had  not  only  set  his  standards  for 
him,  but  whose  life  had  always  been 
worthy  of  them. 

In  the  clear  light  of  a  new  day,  with 
his  legs  rested  and  his  courage  as  the 
morning,  George's  mind  seemed  quite 
naturally  to  swing  back  to  the  great  gate 
where  the  lions  continuously  crouched. 

He  was  standing  before  a  window, 
looking  out,  when  Sarah  came  in. 
"Well!"  she  exclaimed,  smiling.  "You 
don 't  favor  de  tired  little  human  I  put  to 
bed  last  night.  You  sho'  was  one  tired 
man. ' ' 

"Yas  'm,  I  sho'  was!"  the  boy  an 
swered,  "an'  I  went  to  sleep  widout  no 

[62] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

rockin'.  Dat  was  half  becaze  my  heart 
was  down.  I  done  had  my  palate  down 
befo'  to-day,  an'  had  to  git  somebody 
to  tie  up  my  top  lock  an'  wrop  it  tighter 
an'  tighter  tel  de  palate  h'isted  itself. 
But  when  a  man's  heart  gits  down,  I 
'spec'  dey  ain't  no  way  to  lif '  it  up— not 
no  suddent  way. ' ' 

"It  rises  itself,  dough,  over  a  good 
night's  sleep,"  said  Sarah;  "sleep  an'  a 
tub  o'  cold  water  '11  raise  anybody's 
courage. ' '  She  pointed  to  the  shed  door 
as  she  spoke. 

"Yonder  yo'  tub,  boy!  Go  jump  in! 
An'  take  dat  bar  o'  lye-soap  off  de  wash- 
boa 'd  an'  scour  yo'self  good,  whilst  I 
sews  on  a  button  or  so  for  yer— an'  mend 
deze  galluses. ' ' 

"An'  dey  sho'  does  need  it!"  chuckled 
George.  "Great  clo'es  dey  was  for  a 
Christmas  gif ',  to  be  sho ' ! " 

[63] 


GEOEGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"Is  you  a  Christmas  gif?"  Sarah's 
heart  seemed  to  jump  into  her  throat 
when  she  put  the  question. 

"No,  ma'am!  I  ain't!  I  got  better 
sense  over  night !  Seem  like  in  my  sleep 
I  must  'a*  seen  myself  as  I  is!  No  won 
der  dey  all  turned  me  down!  Nobody 
would  n't  'a'  took  me,  de  way  I  looked 
outside— an'  dey  could  n't  see  my  heart." 

The  woman  turned  longing  eyes  to 
ward  the  tub,  but  she  said  nothing. 

If  only  he  had  expressed  an  unshaken 
resolve  to  be  this  fanciful  thing,  whether 
or  no,  how  simple  it  would  have  been  to 
settle  it !  While  she  had  asked  him  if  he 
were  to  be  a  Christmas  gift,  she  felt  her 
self  impelled  to  go  to  the  bath-tub  and 
to  "rub  him  down"  a  bit  as  she  had  done 
her  own  boy. 

But  George's  answer  made  her  sud 
denly  afraid  of  suffering.  She  put  his 

[64] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES  ' 

clothes  conveniently  for  him  and  went  to 
her  stove. 

But  when  he  came  to  her  a  few  mo 
ments  later,  all  dressed  and  with  even  a 
dim  suggestion  of  a  "part"  down  the 
middle  of  his  kinky  hair,  Sarah  bade  him 
be  seated,  and  hastened  to  pile  his  plate 
—the  same  circle  of  tin  with  everybody's 
name  on  earth  hidden  in  its  rim — and  the 
bowl  of  coffee  beside  it,  a  great  yellow 
affair  with  blue  stripes  for  style,  was 
nearly  half  cream,  poured  from  the  top 
of  her  milk  can. 

"Does  you  like  yo7  corn-brade  cold  or 
het  ? ' '  Gaze  I  fixed  part  bof e  ways. ' ' 

"Het,  please,  m'am, "  he  answered, 
unhesitatingly,  and  poor  Sarah  caught 
her  breath  as  she  glanced  at  the  hat  and 
cap  hanging  together  behind  the  door. 
And  she  almost  wished  he  had  said 
1 1  cold '  '—if  he  was  not  to  be  a  Christmas 

[65] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

gift,  after  all— and  this  tender  episode, 
soon  to  be  passed,  leaving  her  more  con 
sciously  alone  than  ever,  would  have  one 
pang  less  in  the  retrospect.  Her  lost  boy 
always  wanted  his  corn-bread  heated 
over,  or,  as  she  said  it,  "het." 

There  was  great  attraction  in  the  at 
mosphere  of  Sarah's  home  and  in  the 
place  in  her  affections,  which  he  knew 
himself  to  fill.  Still  the  habit  of  the  boy's 
life  had  been  to  project  himself  so  fully 
into  his  grandfather's  reminiscences  that 
he  really  felt  an  air  of  affluence  to  be  his 
by  a  sort  of  hereditary  right. 

"Whar  yo'  toof -picks?"  he  asked,  sud 
denly,  of  Sarah,  looking  calmly  out  the 
window  as  he  spoke. 

The  yearning  woman  had  been  re 
pressing  an  eagerness  in  serving  her 
guest  until  now,  but  she  suddenly  real 
ized  herself  a  trifle  forbearing  while  she 

[66] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

obediently  stepped  from  her  back  door 
and  cut  several  fine  thorns  from  her 
single  orange-tree  and  laid  them  beside 
the  boy  's  plate. 

His  quick  "Thanky,  ma'am/'  and  the 
alacrity  with  which  he  covered  them  with 
his  little  black  fingers,  was  somewhat  ap 
peasing,  however,  and  she  even  laughed 
with  him  while  he  added : 

"Gaze  dey  say  dat  when  a  man  starts 
out  to  make  his  fortune,  ef  he  kin  pick 
his  toofs  an'  spit  an'  cuss  right  smart, 
he  '11  find  luck  aroun'  de  fus'  corner— an' 
ef  dey  's  on'y  a  clair  moon  in  sight,  horn 
up,  so  she  can't  spill  out  his  money  for 
him— dey  's  wealth  an'  riches  layin'  in 
his  path  thick  for  him  to  gather. ' ' 

He  had  thrust  the  end  of  one  of  the 
orange-thorns  between  his  lips  as  he 
spoke,  softening  its  point  and  sipping  its 
flavor,  as  one  naturally  treats  an  orange- 

[67] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

thorn,  and  presently  lie  spat  with  fine 
spirit  and  aim  through  an  opening  in  the 
honeysuckles  beyond  the  window. 

' 1 1  never  cusses, ' '  he  added,  presently, 
"an*  I  ain't  gwine  to  practice  it  now.  I 
can't  see  how  it  could  help  a  man  in  de 
right  way— not  reel  cussin'.  I  has  my 
own  cuss-words,  but  dey  's  private  an' 
des  middlin'  bad." 

He  spat  again— using  the  same  right  of 
way  as  before. 

i  i  I  could  hit  a  mark  dat  way  nine  times 
out  o'  eight— ef  dey  had  dat  many,"  he 
remarked,  dryly;  "but  I  wasn't  aimin' 
to  hit  dis  time.  I  aimed  to  miss— an'  I 
done  it,  too. ' ' 

"Miss  what?"  said  the  .suddenly 
doubting  Sarah.  "Dat  's  a  purty  big 
brag  for  a  man  o'  yo'  size." 

"Dey  's  a  last  year's  bird  nest  in  dem 
dry  honeysuckle  tangles,  an'  I  never 

[68] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

harms  no  nest  whilst  de  owner  's  away— 
but  ef  you  '11  gimme  som'h'n'  round, 
I  '11  land  it  in  de  nest  for  yer.  One  o' 
dem  ole  swiveled  chiny-berries  '11  do. 
I  '11  put  a  last  year  berry  in  his  last  year 
nest,  an'  maybe  de  bird  '11  think  he  for 
got  it,  whilst  he  was  movin'  on.  Dey 
tas'es  wuss  'n  bermafuge,  but  it  won't 
stay  in  my  mouf  to  hurt.  Beach  me  one, 
please  ma'am." 

The  china-trees  grew  low  above  the 
bench  at  Sarah's  door,  and  "just  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing,"  she  stepped  out  and 
brought  in  a  bunch  of  the  berries. 

"Keep  yo'  eye  on  it!"  the  boy  ex 
claimed,  lowering  his  head  a  trifle  while 
he  sent  a  missile  quite  into  the  heart  of 
the  clump.  "Now,  go  look  in,"  he 
laughed,  grasping  his  bundles,  "caze  I 
mus'  be  gwine.  Yas,  I  see  you  found  it, 
but  leave  it  alone !  Dat  's  a  robin's  nest, 

[69] 

5 — George  Washington  Jones, 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

an7  he  's  a  poor  builder.  But  ef  he  comes 
back  dey  's  one  good  drunk  in  dat  berry 
for  him— dat  an'  what  he  '11  pick  out  o* 
de  tree  when  his  appetite  's  started. 
I  used  to  ketch  my  robins  drunk  in  de 
grass  under  the  chiny-trees,  an'  sober 
'em  up  an'  sell  'em,  but  dey  ain't 
much  money  in  'em.  Br'ilin'  'em  for 
gran 'daddy  paid  better.  Him  an'  his 
pickaninny,  we  used  to  have  our  good 
times,  you  bet!  Well,  so  long,  Aunt 
Sarah!  An'  thanky,  ma'am,  once  mo'. 
I  got  dat  big  bundle  o'  lunch,  an'  I  '11  be 
chewin'  an'  thinkin'  about  you  long  befo' 
you  'd  advise  me  to  eat  it  ef  you  was 
along,  I  reckon." 

"Maybe  it  's  jest  as  well,"  Sarah 
thought  as  she  hastily  threw  a  tear  from 
her  eye.  "He  ain't  no  common  Chile 
an'  he  mought  'a'  gimme  trouble." 

She  was  wrapping  her  half  loaf  in  a 

[70] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

damp  towel,  and  had  stooped  before  the 
cupboard  to  put  it  in. 

"Yit  an'  still,"  she  added,  as  she  lifted 
herself  from  contemplation  of  her  cold 
larder,  "yit  an'  still,  I'd  ruther  take 
my  trouble  out  'n  a  full  heart  'n  an  empty 
one— ef  it  was  Gord's  will." 

She  thought  the  boy  had  gone,  but 
when  she  went  to  the  door,  really  intend 
ing  to  follow  him  with  her  eye,  she  dis 
covered  him  standing  in  the  gateway,  ten 
feet  or  more  beyond  her  door-step.  Her 
tread  was  soft,  and  so  George  had  not 
discovered  her  when  he  turned  back. 

"I  been  standin'  here,  sayin'  it  over, 
to  see  who  's  it/'  he  said,  quite  as  calmly 
as  if  he  were  remarking  about  the 
weather.  ' i  I  took  dis  sycamo  '-tree  on  de 
banquette*  to  stan'  on  for  you— an'  Ides 
took  me  for  me,  an'  I  said: 

*  Banket,  used  for  sidewalk  in  New  Orleans. 
[71] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"  '  Eena,  meena,  mina,  mo, 
Cracka  feena,  fina,  fo, 
Omanoocba,  popatoocha, 
King,  ding,  dang,  do  P 

an',  of  co'se,  you  bein'  de  onliest  lady  in 
de  game,  I  give  you  de  start— at  de 
sycamo'-tree— but— but  I  'm  it!  An'  dat 
means  I  'm  boun'  to  lead  off.  Ef  I  had 
acted  de  coward,  an'  named  myself  fust, 
behin'  yo'  back,  you  'd  'a'  been  it— an' 
I  'd  'a'  had  to  come  back  an'  put  down 
deze  bundles  an'  go  to  you  for  orders. 
But  I  'in  my  own  man  now,  an'  I  mus'  be 
up  an'  gittin'.  Dey  ain't  no  time  to  lose; 
Dat  lion  gate— !" 

He  hesitated  here,  and  glanced  at  the 
woman,  and  his  voice  betrayed  a  lower 
ing  of  tone  while  he  added : 

"  'T  ain't  dat  I  'd  class  you  wid  stone 
beases —  't  ain't  dat — but  seem, some  way, 
dat  dem  rock  lions  is  callin'  me,  an'  I 
[72] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

bleeged  to  go.  An'  dat  deef  ole  lady, 
maybe  she  mouglit  be  on  de  lookout  for 
me— ef  she  been  pray  in '  wid  faith  for  a 
handy  little  boy. ' ' 

Sarah's  fond  eyes  passed  lovingly  over 
his  little  figure  while,  bundle  in  hand  to 
go  forth  into  the  great  world  and  yet 
frankly  confessing  his  temptation  to  re 
main  with  her,  he  so  manfully  confided 
his  plans. 

"Dat  's  so,"  she  said,  simply,  when  he 
had  done.  "Dat  's  so,  an'  ef  you  feels  a 
call  to  go,  yo'  Aunt  Sarah  would  n't  stop 
you.  But  dem  shoes—  !  I  'd  hate  to  see 
you  clap  de  knocker  on  dat  high  gate 
twix'  dem  two  lions  wid  dem  shoes  on. 
Dey  ain't  even  to  say  fellers,  is  dey?— 
not  perzacly. ' ' 

Even  while  she  was  speaking  she  had 
turned  away,  and  in  a  moment  George 
was  sitting  down  while  she  tried  upon  his 

[73] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

feet  a  somewhat  mouldy  pair  of  half- 
worn  brogans. 

"Ef  deze  '11  fit  yo'  foots,  dey  could  be 
polished  up,  an'  dat  lion-lady,  she 
would  n  't  take  no  further  notice.  Dey 
war  n't  quite  fit  for  him  to  wear  to  his 
own  fun'al— not  wid  de  new  half  soles  off 
de  ground— so  I  put  'em  away  till  some 
needy  man  mought  claim  'em. ' ' 

The  shoes  proved  a  most  satisfactory 
fit- that  is,  they  "went  on"  and  "did  n't 
pinch,"  and,  indeed,  when  a  stiff  wad  of 
paper  in  them  had  given  their  toes  a  sort 
of  lift,  George's  delight  was  complete. 

"Tell  you  what,  a  man  could  cut 
curves  in  deze ! "  he  exclaimed,  while  he 
stepped  out  bravely.  "Dey  calls  for 
manners  an'  behavior— an'  a  walkin'- 
cane  wouldn't  faze  'em,  nuther.  But  I 
sho '  does  wush  't  I  had  some  sort  o '  pri 
vate  hat,  'stid  o*  dis  heah  soljer-cap. 

[74] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

Co'se,  I  likes  it,  but,  right  now,  wid  deze 
mixed  clo  'es,  seem  like  it  locations  all  my 
bravery  in  my  head. ' ' 

"How  '11  dis  one  do?"  Sarah  brought 
down  upon  his  head,  even  while  she 
spoke,  out  of  nowhere,  apparently,  a  white 
straw,  a  bit  frazzled  in  the  brim,  but  with 
plenty  of  starch  and  "spunk"  in  it. 

George  surveyed  himself  in  most  leis 
urely  fashion  before  delivering  himself 
upon  the  hat,  and  he  had  even  tested  it  at 
several  angles  upon  his  head,  when  he 
finally  discarded  it. 

Then,  while  he  replaced  the  old  cap  and 
pulled  its  visor  low  over  his  eyes,  he  re 
marked  : 

"Thanky,  ma'am,  but  I  reckon  dis 
cap  '11  do,  after  all.  Hit  don't  call  for 
much,  sence  its  braid  is  to'e  off,  an'  dat 
straw— you  see,  I  never  likes  to  fo'ce  de 


season." 


[75] 


i 


CHAPTER  VI 

BUTTONS  AND  BKAVEKY 

T  was  about  ten  o'clock— the  front 
edge  of  the  morning  after  breakfast 
to  those  who  sleep  along  Prytania  Street 
—when  George  finally  started  out. 

There  had  been  a  full  understanding 
with  Sarah  that  he  should  return  to  her 
whenever  he  would,  until  he  should  have 
found  an  accepted  abiding-place,  and  with 
this  comfortable  arrangement,  he  stepped 
quite  bravely,  feeling  sure  of  the  direc 
tion  in  which  the  lions  slept  in  stone ;  but 
when  he  had  several  times  lost  his  bear 
ings  and  been  constrained  to  return,  for 
their  recovery,  to  a  certain  church  cor- 

[76] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

ner,  at  the  end  of  what  he  mentally  called 
"Sarah.  Street/'  he  suddenly  seemed  to 
realize  its  open  vestibule  as  an  invitation, 
and,  turning  into  the  gate,  he  mounted 
the  steps,  discovered  a  side  door  acci 
dentally  left  unlocked,  and,  going  quite 
into  the  church,  he  proceeded  to  discuss 
the  generous  meal,  which,  no  doubt, 
cleared  his  mind  while  it  sustained  his 
body. 

When  finally  his  place  was  marked  only 
by  bits  of  paper  and  egg  shell— so  famil 
iar  both  in  the  trail  of  the  wayfarer— 
George  was  traveling  with  good  speed 
and  courage  in  the  real  direction  of  the 
guarded  gate. 

No  one  ever  knew  what  he  said  to  the 
old  lady  within  the  coveted  door  that 
morning,  but  notwithstanding  our  being 
several  accounts  short,  as  the  servants 
were  sent  away  during  the  interview, 
[77] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

certain  it  is  that  two  faces  were  wreathed 
in  smiles,  his  and  his  employer's,  when 
he  went  out,  promising  to  be  on  hand 
early  next  day. 

The  sun  was  still  high  when  George's 
slim  and  elongated  shadow,  extending  for 
some  yards  ahead  of  him,  showed  his 
coming  to  Sarah,  as  it  lay  over  her  wash 
ing  on  the  grass  beyond  her  tubs. 

She  had  welcomed  this  forerunner  of 
her  own  boy  in  the  old  days,  and  it  had 
been  her  habit,  as  soon  as  she  recognized 
it,  to  wipe  her  hands  upon  her  apron  and 
to  await  him  in  the  front  door.  And  so 
she  did  now— going  through  her  cabin. 

" Hello!  How  comes  it  on  wid  my 
little  man  to-day  ? ' ' 

It  was  exactly  her  old  greeting,  but  she 
did  not  realize  it. 

"I  Jm  a  lion  man!    Dat  's  huccome  I 

[78] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

comes  on!"  George  replied,  as  he  met 
her  proudly,  while  he  put  his  bundle  into 
her  extended  hand— the  hand  which  had 
received  the  school-books  of  the  other— a 
year  ago. 

"Yas  'm!"  he  added,  proudly,  fanning 
with  his  cap.  "An'  I  'm  gwine  on  duty 
at  ten  o'clock  to-morrer— an'  I  gwine 
have  a  nuniform,  too— two  nuniforms, 
for  dat  matter— Sunday  an'  week-day— 
all  wid  buttons  an'  bravery  on  'em! 
Dey  done  tuck  an'  tuck  my  measurements 
a 'ready— an'  de  measure-man,  he  don't 
live  at  de  house.  I  went  to  him  wid  a 
order-ticket— an'  he  lets  on  dat  I  holds 
myself  fine!"  At  this  the  boy  threw 
back  his  shoulder,  bracing  himself  like  a 
West  Point  plebe  on  parade.  Then,  feel 
ing  possibly  that  the  next  assertion 
needed  some  apology,  he  added : 

"I  hope  I  ain't  tol'  no  lie,  but  when 

[79] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

she  axed  me  'bout  my  fam'ly,  I  say  I 
stayed  wid  my  Aunt  Sarah,  but  when  she 
axed  me  '  Sarah  what?'  I  des  happened  to 
glimpse  de  lions'  tails  f  'om  her  winder, 
an'  I  say,  I  say: 

"  l Lions  looks  mo'  brave  befo'  'n  dey 
does  behind— don't  dey?'  An'  she  des 
seemed  to  glance  at  'em,  too,  an'  she 
never  quizzed  me  no  mo'  'bout  yo' 
name. ' ' 

"But  sposen  she  had,  boy,  what  would 
you  'a'  said!" 

George  thought  a  moment. 

"I— I  don't  know,  ma'am,  ezzacly.  I 
reckon  maybe  I  'd  'a'  said  som'h'n' 
about  gyardenin'— or  horses— or  birds. 
She  wouldn't  'a'  cotched  me,  nohow— 
not  dat  easy.  But  you  better  learn  me 
all  yo'  full  entitlements  to-night,  please, 
ma'am.  She  mought  ax  me  ag'in.  An' 
besides  dat,  ef  you  sesso,  of  co'se,  I  gwine 

[80] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

come  'home'  heah  when  I  gits  my  days 
off— or  gits  sick.  An',  of  co'se,  I  '11  lif ' 
tubs  or  plant  yo'  gyarden  when  I  comes 
—an'  you. know  reel  aunts,  dey  keeps 
boys'  wages  for  'em,  an'  uses  what  po'- 
tion  dey  needs,  an'  —an'— all  sich  as  dat. 
You  see,  I  ain't  got  no  folks— lessen 
you  'II  be  'em.  Of  co'se,  dey  's  Aunt 
Ca'line,  but  she  ain't  even  a  desirous 
aunt— an'  she  's  got  her  own  supply." 

"I  is  'em,  a' ready!"  said  the  happy 
woman,  and  while  she  took  the  pin  from 
his  cravat  and  held  it  between  her  teeth, 
she  said,  " Hain't  we  been  each  other's 
families  ever  sence  I  see  yo'  little  legs 
danglin'  on  de  front  bench  yisterday? 
An'  as  for  de  'Aunt  Sarah'  part,  you 
know  dat  ain't  no  sin,  caze  everybody 
dat  's  decent  enough  to  say  it  calls  me 
dat.  But  for  my  entitlements— slip  off 
yo'  coat,  boy,  and  lay  up  dis  cravat— I 

[81] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

say  for  my  entitlements,  I  'm  Mis '  Sarah 
Alviry  Sparrer.  Everybody  in  chu'ch 
calls  me  'Sis  Sparrer. '  " 

George  giggled. 

"I  wouldn't  'a'  went  far  wrong  ef 
dey  'd  quizzed  me  for  yo'  name,  an'  I  'd 
skirted  in  an'  remarked  about  sparrers, 
would  I !  I  sho '  won 't  f  orgit  dat  name. ' ' 

1  *  Hit  's  a  name  dat  '11  never  shame  you, 
man. ' ' 

"Yas,  so  I  see,"  said  the  boy. 

"You  mighty  keen-eyed  ef  you  see  dat, 
boy.  How  you  see  it,  I  like  to  know  ? ' ' 

For  answer  George  pointed  to  a 
framed  document  headed  with  a  picture 
of  bride  and  groom,  hanging  over  the 
mantel. 

"I  got  one  des  like  dat  o'  my  gran 'ma 
an'  gran 'pa— an'  he  allus  tol'  me  to  hold 
fas'  by  sech  as  dat  ef  I  ever  come  acrost 
it— 'mongst  my  color.  We  all  been 

[82] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

church  widders  in  my  f am  'ly.  I  '11  fetch 
mine  over  an'  hang  it  up." 

Sarah  seemed  almost  unduly  amused 
at  this. 

"You  's  a  great  lookin'  widder,  I  must 
say ! ' '  she  fairly  roared. 

"I  mean  my  folks  is— an'  I  see  you  's 
de  same. ' ' 

"Yas,  boy;  dat  's  right.  "We  all  been 
raised  to  marry  an'  christen  an'  bury  in 
church— an'  I  'm  proud  to  see  dat  you 
been  riz  de  same  way.  We  has  papers 
fo'  all  our  performances." 

"Me,  too,"  said  George,  "so  far  as 
I  'm  gone  along.  I  got  my  christenin' 
city  fie  ate— but  as  to  marryin'  an'  dyin' 
—I  ain't  in  no  hurry.  I  'm  thinkin'  mo' 
o'  what  's  makin'  dat  pot-top  dance  de 
way  it  do.  I  's  hongry,  Aunt  Sarah. 
Dis  heah  waistcoat,  hit  's  fairly  wrin 
kled.  I  wants  to  eat  til '  it  fits. ' ' 

£83] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"I  know  you  does— an'  hit  's  yo'  name 
in  dat  pot  dat  makes  it  dance  de  way  it  do. 
I  hoped  to  have  my  man  set  down  wid  me 
for  supper. " 

"An'  me,  too.  I  was  so  fear'd  de 
trumpet-lady  'd  comman'  me  to  stay 
dar  right  along,  dat  when  she  murmured 
out,  'to-morrer/  I  purty  nigh  giggled. 
You  know  it  'd  be  hard  to  sass  into  a 
yeah-trumpet— or  to  conterdict  it." 


[84] 


CHAPTER  VII 

ANGELS   IN   THE   AIE 

IT  was  nine  o'clock— past  bedtime  for 
such  as  Sarah  and  George— and  the 
latter 's  lessening  share  of  the  conversa 
tion  had  for  some  time  been  punctuated 
with  nods,  when  Sarah  remarked, 
sleepily : 

"I  notice  de  ole  clock  is  broke  down 
on  de  strike. "  She  rose,  and  began 
winding  "the  strike, "  which  had  failed 
on  the  sixth  hour,  and  when  it  began  to 
ring  out  faithfully,  three  more,  George 
chuckled,  quite  awake  now  over  the  in 
teresting  fact. 

"  Seems  funny  how  a  clock  can  remem- 

[85] 

6—  George  Washington  Jones.  . 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

ber— don't  it?"  he  laughed.  "It  owed 
you  three  strikes,  an'  it  paid  its  debt 
befo'  it  done  anything  else." 

"Yas,"  Sarah  repeated;  "it  pays— 
but  I  had  to  dun  it  bef  o '  it  settled  up  dis 
time.  Dat  was  my  fault,  dough.  I 
didn't  do  it  jestice  last  time  I  wound  it 
up.  Hit  pays  what  you  gives  it.  Dat  's 
all.  Dat  's  de  diffe'nce  betwix  man- 
made  machinery  an'  de  Lord's  handi 
work.  De  human  heart  is  His  work— an* 
it  's— it  's  altogether  diffe'nt." 

She  took  her  seat  now,  and,  turning  to 
the  boy,  she  said : 

"For  ninstance,  now,  look  at  you  an' 
me.  I  ain't  nuver  even  to  say  knowed 
you  was  alive,  untel  yisterday— an'  you 
did  n  't  suspicion  I  was  in  de  land  o '  de 
livin'— an'  yit,  when  yo'  thin  legs  got 
tired,  a  little  in'ard  voice,  so  low  it  nuver 
got  up  to  yo'  ears,  but  jes'  spoke  to  yo' 

£861 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

heart,  it  say:  'Go  an'  set  down  on  dat 
ole  bench  under  the  chiny-trees,  man. 
Dey  's  angels  in  de  air  down  dar— an' 
when  you  come,  dey  '11  descen'  down  to 
de  ole  black  'oman  inside,  an'  dey  '11  tell 
her  an'  her  heart  '11  rebound— an'  she  '11 
go  out  an'  fetch  you  in  an'  yield  you  her 
bosom's  comfort.'  ' 

"Did  you  hear  de  angels  when  I  come, 
Aunt  Sarah?"  he  asked,  in  a  half  whis 
per. 

"Not  wid  my  out'ard  ears— no,  son. 
Dey  didn't  haf  to  mo  'n  let  my  heart 
know— an'  hit  led  me  to  you.  I  went  de 
way  my  heart  led— same  as  you  come. ' ' 

"I  knowed  som'h'n'  led  me  to  turn 
dis  way,  caze  hit  was  des  de  contrariwise 
o'  de  way  I  was  lookin'  to  go.  Yas,  an' 
like  you  say,  too,  angels  or  som'h'n' 
must  o'  gimme  courage,  caze  whilst  I 
felt  all  over  me  kind  o'  goose-skin  wid 

[87] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

homesickness  when  I  was  talkin'  to  de 
deef  lady,  I  up  an'  told  her,  brave  as  a 
live  lion,  dat  I  was  'bleeged  to  git  aroun' 
to  see  my  Aunt  Sarah  twice-t  a  week,  at 
de  least  figgur.  I  toP  'er  dat,  Aunt 
Sarah,  on  de  count  o'  de  way  you  totes 
yo '  lef '  hip  sometimes  when  you  makes  a 
sudden  turn.  A  aunt  dat  makes  dat  sort 
o'  motion  in  her  easy  work  might  be 
tookin'  sick  any  day— an'  ef  she  got  air 
nephew  or  step-nephew,  even,  dat  's  fitten 
to  be  had,  he  'd  feel  obleeged  to  git 
aroun'  an'  see  how  she  come  on  every 
few  days.  Den  she  could  even  leave  a 
heavy  tub  'g'inst  his  comin'.  So,  I  said 
twice-t  a  week — ef  not  oftener.  An'  I  said 
I  laid  off  to  pay  her  part  o'  my  wages, 
too." 

Sarah's  face  grew  pretty  serious. 

"Huccome  you  had  de  gall  to  tell  her 
dat,  boy  I" 

[88] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"Gaze  I  ain't  no  beggar,  dat  's  why. 
An'  I  ain't  no  orphaned,  nuther.  I  got 
a  mammy  an'  a  daddy,  no  matter  whar 
dey  is.  Gran 'daddy,  he  tol'  me  dat  a 
grave  was  a  honor 'ble  thing  to  live  by, 
but  I  wants  live  kin-folks,  an'  somebody 
wha'  knows  manners  and  behavior.  Ef 
I  was  to  hire  out  in  dat  deef  ole  lady's 
house,  wid  no  colored  kin  to  rub  off  a 
pain  for  me,  I  'd  seem  like  one  o'  doze 
ole  conterband  niggers  we  hear  tell 
about.  Gran 'daddy,  lookin'  down  at  me, 
why,  he  'd  be  'shamed  to  name  my  name 
in  heaven. ' ' 

"All  dat  's  jes' what  I  was  startin'  to 
say, ' '  answered  Sarah.  ' 1 1  say  it  's  hard 
to  b'lieve  dat  yo'  thin  little  legs  only  in- 
terduced  me  to  you  'istiddy,  an'  I  'm  so 
tuck  up  wid  you  dat  I  ain't  gwine  let  you 
take  dat  place  in  de  lion's  gate  tell  I  goes 
up  myself  an'  talks  to  de  lady.  An'  I  '11 

[89] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

let  her  see  you  ain't  no  rough  and  tum 
ble,  nutlier.  I  '11  put  on  my  black  ala- 
paca  frock  an'  my  beaded  dolman  cape. 
It  's  a  leetle  tight  round  de  arms  sence  I 
growed  into  flesh,  but  it  stands  for  times 
an'  seasons— an'  so  do  my  bonnet  wid 
de  curtain  in  de  back  an'  de  roses  an' 
grapes  in  front.  Quality  is  quality,  an' 
it  don't  haf  to  be  dated.  She  '11  make 
terms,  as  dey  say,  wid  my  outfit,  ef  she  's 
short-sighted,  whilst  she  mought  spurn 
me  ef  she  seen  me  in  dis  check  ap'on  an' 
plaid  hankcher.  New  things  is  cheap. 

"You  see,  ef  you  gwine  be  my  boy— 
an',  of  co'se,  either  you  is  or  you  ain't— 
she  '11  see  I  nuver  'lows  none  o'  my 
family  to  live  out  p'omiskyus.  But,  of 
co'se,  ef  I  'm  satisfied  de  way  things 
lo'oks,  you  kin  go  in  a  few  days,  time  I 
gits  you  fitted  out.  You  needs  night-shirts 
an'  mendin'  an'  a  few  every-day  clo'es— 

[90] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

to  play  in.  Dey  '11  be  days  when  you  '11 
be  boun'  to  mud  up  de  lions  jes'  caze  dey 
won't  take  dey  eyes  off  'n  you.  Boy  chil- 
len,  dey  ap'  to  have  dem  spells— but  don't 
give  in  to  'em  mo  'n  you  haf  to.  I  '11  fix 
it  all  up  for  yer,  but  don't  you  dast  to  git 
up  to-morrer  mornin'  tel  yo'  Aunt  Sarah 
calls  you.  Den  she  '11  be  back  f 'om  de 
negosuatioms  at  de  lion  gate.  Come 
on,  now.  Say  yo'  'Now  I  lay  me— '  and 
git  to  bed." 

George's  grin,  as  he  crossed  the  floor, 
seemed  to  obscure  all  the  rest  of  him.  It 
was  such  rest  to  be  controlled— to  belong 
so  soon  again  to  somebody  of  require 
ments  and  of  proud  standards. 

The  child  was  pathetically  excited  and 
mischievous,  as  was  betrayed  by  his  ask 
ing,  even  as  he  knelt : 

"What  would  you  do  ef  I  was  to  sass 
you— an'  not  mind!" 

[91] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

The  very  absurdity  of  his  question 
amused  him  so  that  he  impulsively  threw 
his  arms  about  the  woman's  neck.  And 
while  she  hugged  him,  much  as  she  had 
hugged  her  own  boy,  she  answered,  with 
mischief  in  her  eyes: 

"I  'd  cut  a  peach  switch  an'  whup  you 
good—dat  's  what  I  'd  do,"  at  which 
poor  George  hugged  her  all  the  harder. 

"An'  I  'd  need  it,  too!"  he  chuckled, 
proudly.  "  You  'd  be  servin'  me  des  like 
all  de  mammies  does  owdacious  boys, 
—mammies  or  keer-takin'  aunts.  But  you 
need  n't  tek  time  to  hunt  no  peach  switch. 
You  can  tek  dat  bag-strop  to  me— ef  I 
needs  it— but  I  ain't  nuver  gwine  need 
it,  lessen  I  breaks  out  in  a  fresh  place, 
unbeknowinst  to  myself." 

No  more  heart-whole  and  submissive 
grandson,  son,  or  nephew  ever  repeated 
a  simple  prayer,  or  sank  into  happy 

[92] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

slumber  upon  a  more  downy  bed  of  con 
fiding  love  than  did  the  boy  George, 
when,  as  Sarah  put  it,  "he  sounded  his 
amen  an'  let  go  of  her  neck,"  when  she 
led  him  to  bed  and  tucked  the  "mosquito 
bar"  about  him. 


[93] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SIDE-CURLS  AND  OLD-TIME  BEHAVIOR 

AND  when  he  waked  in  the  morning 
to  find  Ponto,  the  bob-tailed  mon 
grel  whom  Sarah  had  always  bade 
him  "keep  clair  of,"  sniffing  at  him  out 
side  the  net,  he  became  instantly  guilty 
of  his  first  technical  disobedience.  It 
was  only  technical,  however,  as  Ponto 
had  told  him  in  good  dog  language,  which 
nearly  all  black  boys,  and  many  white 
ones,  know,  that  while  Sarah  was  a  good 
mistress,  she  didn't  know  everything— 
especially  about  beasts  and  friendships 
—and  boys. 
And  so,  although  he  said,  to  maintain 

[94] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

his  position  of  superiority,  "You  better 
go  back  to  yo'  barrel,  Ponto— an'  let  yo' 
marster  git  up  an7  dress,"  lie  immedi 
ately  untucked  the  netting,  and  while  the 
dog  licked  his  arm,  he  added : 

"Ef  Aunt  Sarah  comes  an'  'servers 
you  heah,  she  '11  whup  us  bofe  good— she 
sho'  will." 

It  was  really  amusing— the  pleasure 
George  took  in  thinking  of  Sarah's  ex 
ercising  even  this  supreme  authority 
over  him. 

All  through  the  old  days,  while  his 
grandfather  and  he  had  roughed  it  vari 
ously,  his  outside  contacts  had  been  with 
children  who  got  candy  and  blows,  ac 
cording  to  circumstances— clean,  mended 
clothes  one  minute  and  whippings  for 
soiling  or  tearing  them  the  next. 

The  whipping  had  somehow  seemed 
the  one  indisputable  guarantee  of  privi- 

[95] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

lege  and  protection.  It  was  a  sort  of 
nether-part  of  "belonging." 

That  was  why  he  grinned  so  at  the 
thought,  and  why,  when  he  finally  heard 
Sarah's  step  at  the  door,  he  shouted, 
laughing : 

"Time  to  be  gittin'  up— an'  I  is  too!" 

"Yas,  I  should  say  so— ef  you  ain't, 
you  better !  And  ef  you  know  which  side 
yo'  bread  's  buttered  on,  you  '11  make 
haste,  too— ef  you  wants  to  hold  yo' 
place!" 

"Hold  what?"  George  had  sprung 
out  of  bed  at  the  word. 

"I  say,  ef  you  'spects  to  lasso  dem 
lions  from  behind,  you  better  hurry  up 
an'  git!  I  done  tried  all  my  argi  mints 
wid  'er.  I  shot  'em  good  as  I  could  into 
dat  ear-trumpet,  but  it  got  me  so  frus 
trated  part  o'  de  time,  when  I  was 
callin'  fo'th  my  best  speech  I  was 

[96] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

treadin'  on  de  hose— an'  so  I  nuver  tried 
to  say  it  all  over. 

"You  done  gone  an'  got  de  ole  lady  so 
hoodooed  datdey  ain't  no  reason  in  'er. 
She  'lowed  dat  she  did  n't  want  no  home 
made  clo'es  nor  nothin',  nothin'  but  de 
boy — an'  she  wanted  him  cash  down. 

"But  she  's  all  right,  settin'  up  dar 
wid  side-curls  an'  ole-time  behavior — 
why,  she  even  axed  me  to  set  down,  an' 
p'inted  to  one  o'  deze  criss-cross  stitched 
bottomans,  an'  I  'clare,  I  'm  so  heavy 
an'  I  was  studyin'  how  de  coxcomb  on  it 
was  raised  up  like  reel  bloom  dat  I  come 
down  on  it  sort  o'  bias  an'  sudden,  an' 
de  rollers  must  'a'  been  fresh  greased. 
Anyhow,  when  I  let  down  my  heft,  de 
whole  business  shot  'crost  de  room,  an' 
de  speakin'-hose,  why,  hit  fell  halfway 
betwixt  us.  I  tell  you,  boy,  you  got  to 
mind  yo'  p's  an'  q's  quite  a  while,  to  mek 

[97] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

up  for  de  way  yo'  Aunt  Sarah  skated 
crost  dat  waxed  flo '.  I  tell  you,  the  bead 
cape  didn't  count  for  nothin'  Hitjes' 
went  along  wid  de  rest  o '  me. ' ' 

George  rolled  on  the  floor  with  mirth 
over  the  ludicrous  experience  of  the 
really  dignified  woman  who  so  calmly 
confessed  her  embarrassment. 

"But  what  did  you  do,  Aunt  Sarah, 
when  yoy  han'-car  come  to  a  standstill ?" 
he  shrieked. 

"Why,  I  jes'  lived  up  to  my  cape  an* 
my  raisin'— an'  I  riz  up  an'  courtesied 
todes  de  lady,  walked  back  and  picked 
up  de  talkin'-tube,  an'  I  say  into  it: 
"All  right,  ma'am— please,  ma'am— 
thanky,  ma'am— he  '11  be  heah  quick  as 
I  kin  git  back  an'  see  him  dressed." 
An'  nair  one  of  us  even  so  much  as 
looked  todes  de  roller-seat.  Tell  de 
trufe,  I  ain't  sho'  she  seen  me  make  de 

[98] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

trip,  caze  jes'  as  I  started,  a  black  gal 
come  in  to  speak  to  her,  an'  ef  she  did  n't 
see  me,  she  couldn't  hear  me,  I  know. 
But  come  on,  now,  an'  lemme  put  you 
th'ough  yo'  paces.  What  's  dat  dog 
doin',  jumpin'  over  de  bed?  Is  you  been 
teachin'  him  tricks?" 

"Yas  'm.  I  teached  him  dat,  easy.  I 
des  done  it  once-t— an'  he  f oiler ed  along. 
Watch  me,  now!  Come  along,  Ponto!" 

At  this,  George,  after  quickly  taking 
his  place  on  the  floor,  made  a  brave  high 
plunge  over  the  bed,  the  dog  following 
closely  on  his  heels. 

Instead  of  Sarah's  objecting,  as  would 
have  been  only  consistent  with  proper 
discipline,  she  dropped  into  a  chair, 
screaming  with  laughter. 

And  while  she  took  off  her  cape  and 
untied  her  bonnet  strings,  she  said : 

"I  sho'  is  sorry  you  's  gwine  to  live 

[99] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

out.  I  sho'  is — caze  a  child's  noise,  hit  's 
refreshment  in  de  house.  But  hurry  and 
dress  now,  an'  come  to  me.  I  got  to 
feed  you  an'  drill  you,  too." 

When  presently  the  boy  presented  him 
self  at  table,  Sarah  hurriedly  placed  his 
food  before  him. 

"Eat  now  an'  chew  to-morrer,"  she 
said,  playfully,  "an'  come  tek  yo'  man 
ners-lesson.  You  can  be  p'omoted 
all  yo'  life  an'  you  '11  sca'cely  git  to  de 
place  whar  you  '11  have  to  eat  wid  man 
ners.  Nigger  table-behavior  consis'es 
in  watchin'  white  folks  whilst  dey  eat 
easy  an'  talk  loud— wid  style.  To  know 
how  to  stan'  behin'  a  cheer  an'  flap  a 
fly-fan—when  dey  is  a  fly-fan— or  to—" 

"Fly-fans  ain't  in  it  for  reel  gran- 
jer,"  George  interrupted.  "Gran 'pa, 
he  done  showed  me  how  to  take  my  stan' 
— des  dis  way  1 ' ' 

[100] 


GEORGE 


He  rose  and  placed  himself  back  of  his 
own  chair—  one  hand  over  another,  rest 
ing  on  its  top  edge. 

"But  dat  ain't  no  trouble.  De  great 
est  trouble  for  a  lively  boy  is  to  ac'  deef 
and  dumb.  No  matter  how  funny 
stories  is,  no  f  us  '-class  waiter  is  allowed 
to  blink.  I  knowed  a  mighty  peart  black 
boy  once-t,  wha'  went  to  a  place  on  trial, 
an'  he  had  it  purty  nigh  solid  when  one 
day  somebody  tol'  a  story  dat  tickled  him 
so  dat  he  giggled  all  over  a  omelet-soup- 
plate—  an'  I  tell  you  dat  one  giggle,  hit 
landed  him  in  de  street.  '  ' 

"But  I  ain't  afeerd  o'  dat,"  inter 
rupted  Sarah,  "not  wid  you.  Ef  yo' 
gran  'pa  walked  behin'  his  young  mis- 
tus  gwine  to  church,  an'  toted  her  book 
an'  made  his  salutatioms,  de  way  you 
say  he  done,  hit  's  boun'  to  tell  in  yo' 
blood." 


y-~George  Washington  Jones 


:  GffO'Rggi  W;A$HINGTON  JONES 


"Yas,  it  mought  tell— but  I  don't  de 
pend  on  dat.  I  nuver  goes  in  to  wait  on 
no  ticklish  company  but  I  totes  a  long 
pin.  I  sticks  it  under  my  sleeve  on  de 
right  side,  an'  ef  any  talk  gits  de  better 
of  me,  I  des  slips  it  up  an'  jabs  it  in 
close  to  my  arm.  Dey  say  dat  's  a  safe 
place.  Dey  ain't  no  hearts  or  livers  or 
nothin'  set  up  in  yo'  right  arm-crotch  to 
suicide  you  wid. 

"I  's  waited  on  tables  once-t  in  a 
while,  when  dey  'd  be  a  hand  short,  whar 
gran 'pa  'd  be  sawin'  wood,  an'  once-t  dey 
was  des  startin'  a  turrible  story  'bout  a 
Kentucky  colonel,  an'  I  knowed  de  end 
of  it,  an'  knowed  I  could  n't  stand  it,  an' 
I  was  des  startin'  'round  wid  the  fust 
champagne  co'se— every  glass  to  fill  an' 
no  side-trackin',  so  you  know  what  I 
done  I 

"I  jabbed  my  pin  in  when  I  started 

[102] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

out,  an'  I  tell  you,  when  de  end  o'  story 
hove  in  sight,  I  started  to  handle  de  bot 
tle  so  as  to  work  de  pin,  an'  when  I  got 
back  into  de  pantry,  I  tell  you  I  had  two 
f  us '-class  vaccinatioms  on  my  arm.  You 
see,  I  worked  her  up  an'  th'ough— but 
you  bet  I  nuver  laughed.  I  did  n't  even 
feel  like  it,  an'  yit,  ef  I  was  to  hear  dat 
story  now,  wid  no  legal  objections  like 
a  hat-pin  to  spile  my  fun,  I  'd  suffer  tur- 
rible  an'  maybe  lose  a  button." 

' '  I  should  think  a  boy  smart  as  you  is 
could  save  his  manners,  even  ef  he  had  to 
bite  his  lip. ' ' 

"Yas,  an'  so  I  could— ef  I  could  reach 
it  in  time,  but  dat  ain't  safe,  not  for  me. 
My  funny-bone  lifts  my  top  lip  out  o' 
reach  at  de  fust  shock,  an',  besides,  one 
grin  in  a  lady's  dinin'-room  is  counted  a 
crime— in  special  ef  it  's  red  an'  black 
an'  dead- white— an'  a  yard  long  at  dat, 

[103J 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 


like  mine  is.  A  Irish  grin,  why,  dat  's 
diff'ent.  Half  de  time  you  can't  tell 
whether  dey  grinnin'  or  not." 

"Yas,  dat  's  so/'  acquiesced  Sarah. 
"But  I  ain't  afeerd  o'  my  man.  But 
we  mus'  git  up  some  yether  contraption 
besides  dem  long  pins.  I  'd  be  havin'  de 
col '  shivers  every  day,  'bout  dinner-time, 
j  es '  'thinkin '  maybe  — ' ' 

"You  nee 'n't  to  worry  about  dat, 
Aunt  Sarah.  I  ain't  sho'  whether  I  '11 
haf  to  wait  on  de  dinner-table  or  not,  but 
ef  I  does  I  reckon  de  ole  lady  an'  de  ear- 
trumpet  an'  me  '11  be  able  to  hold  in  all 
de  fun  dey  is— widout  no  pins.  But  I 
wants  a  good  strong  one  to  take  along 
wid  me  caze  she  done  a 'ready  put  sev'ral 
questions  to  me,  an'  I  know  I  'm  ap'  to 
git  in  trouble.  For  one  thing,  she  says 
she  loves  to  listen  at  Testament-readin', 
an'  she  axed  me  could  I  do  it,  an',  of 

[104] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

co'se,  I  say,  'Yas,  ma'am,  I  'd  try';  but 
befo'  gracious,  ef  she  axes  me  to  spell 
out  de  gorspils,  an'  maybe  sing  or  even 
pray  into  dat  ear-trumpet  befo'  I  gits 
used  to  it,  I  tell  you,  Aunt  Sarah,  dat 
shiny-top  bonnet-pin  you  des'  taken  out 
o'  yo'  bonnet  won't  be  any  too  long  for 


me." 


[105] 


CHAPTER  IX 

GEOEGE  SEES  A  VISION 

GEOEGE  entered  upon  his  service 
within  the  gate  of  his  dreams 
with  a  high  head  and  a  brave  heart. 

There  was  so  much  to  satisfy  his  am 
bition  in  the  stately  old  home  and  its 
atmosphere  of  refinement  that,  for  some 
days,  his  mind  was  so  filled  that  he  quite 
forgot  to  miss  the  young  dream-lady  with 
curls  who  played  upon  a  gilt  harp,  and 
whom  it  had  been  his  most  cherished  am 
bition  to  follow  about  her  grounds,  wait 
ing  and  serving,  even  as  his  grandfather 
had  done  in  the  old  time. 

Indeed,  having  undertaken  his  duties 

[106] 


r  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

here  without  this  factor,  he  might  prac 
tically  have  forgotten  it  for  all  time,  had 
he  not  one  day  come  suddenly  upon  a 
startling  apparition  of  just  such  a  per 
sonage. 

It  confronted  him  in  the  far  end  of  a 
dusky  back  parlor,  seldom  opened  now. 
Strolling  aimlessly,  late  one  afternoon, 
into  the  great  rooms,  he  suddenly  saw, 
standing  before  him,  a  beautiful  girl,  in 
the  evening  dress  so  commonly  worn 
in  the  dusk  in  early  Virginia  days. 
She  seemed  to  be  strolling  from  a  great 
old  house  through  an  avenue  of  trees,  her 
faithful  dog  at  her  left,  while  a  resplend 
ent  black  serving  boy  in  Continental  dress 
at  the  other  side  bore  her  book  in  his 
arms— all  pride  and  attention. 

The  great  painting  probably  repre 
sented  the  "  missy "  of  the  manor  going 
down  to  the  arbor  in  the  lower  garden, 

[107] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

where  all  the  slave-children  came  to  sing 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  she  led  them 
—even  sometimes  accompanying  them  on 
her  harp. 

The  picture  caught  the  sunset  rays  with 
such  effect  that  the  small  boy,  seeing  it  in 
all  its  grandeur  for  the  first  time,  not  only 
weirdly  illuminated  hut  seeming  actually 
to  take  motion  from  the  play  of  leaves  in 
shadow  over  it,  stopped  suddenly  and, 
touching  his  forehead  in  salutation  and 
scraping  his  foot,  began  to  gasp  some 
thing,  when  a  whiff  of  wind  blew  a  dry 
magnolia  leaf  through  the  window.  The 
leaf  seemed  to  graze  the  very  skirts  of 
the  lady,  when  it  was  intercepted  by  the 
strings  of  a  real  gilt  liarp,  which  stood 
beneath  the  portrait. 

Not  only  did  the  frightened  boy  see  the 
wonderful  vision,  but  he  actually  heard 
the  rustle  of  the  dry  leaf,  and  it  took  but 

[108] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

a  little  pardonable  imagination  to  make 
him  declare,  as  lie  did  afterward,  that  he 
had  "heerd  de  swish  o'  de  silk  dress  an' 
smelt  de  smell  o '  ole  cologne. ' '  The  deli 
cate  aroma  of  a  dry  magnolia  blossom 
is  quite  suggestive  enough  of  a  subtle 
offering  of  time  to  deceive  greater 
minds  than  George's  and  under  less 
excitement. 

At  the  episode  of  the  leaf,  the  boy 
turned  in  terror  and,  with  a  faint  shriek, 
fled  from  the  room— and  that  part  of  the 
house  was  for  him,  afterward,  as  a 
haunted  spot. 

He  could  not  mention  the  occurrence 
to  the  other  servants,  and  certainly  it 
was  not  a  thing  for  him  to  speak  into  the 
ear-trumpet  of  his  benefactress— surely, 
not  yet,  at  least.  And  for  this  last  reti 
cence  there  was  a  most  astonishing  rea 
son—a  reason  which  sent  the  boy  into 

[109] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

quiet  nooks,  for  undisturbed  thinking,  in 
the  garden  when  he  would  otherwise 
have  been  rocking  on  a  "lion-saddle,"  or 
taking  bareback  rides,  or  maybe  even 
sweeping  up  the  leaves  along  the  walks 
between  the  flower-beds. 

His  immediate  recognition  of  the  pic 
ture  as  corresponding  with  the  story  of 
the  old  man,  his  grandfather— a  picture 
which  he  firmly  believed  to  have  been 
a  spiritual  presentment— would  have 
passed  into  variable  shape  and  become 
bedimmed  by  time,  but  for  the  fact  which 
suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that  he  had, 
even  here  in  his  little  new  trunk,  wrapped 
with  a  few  other  treasures,  a  photograph 
which  corresponded  in  every  detail  with 
the  vision,  as  he  remembered  it  in  its 
startling  revelation  of  beauty  which  far 
exceeded  even  his  imagination. 

One  reason  why  he  liked  to  go  into 

[110] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

lonely  places  to  think  was  that  in  such  he 
felt  free  to  take  out  this  old  picture  and 
to  "study  over  it." 

He  knew  that  the  little  black  boy  in  it 
was  his  grandfather— and  that  the  lady 
was  the  young  mistress  whom  he  had 
honored  all  his  days. 

' '  But  why  dey  all  showed  up  to  me  dat 
day— even  to  the  goP  harp  which  I  on'y 
knows  by  hearsay— dat  's  too  much  for 
me !  Dey  's  a  mericle  done  taken  place 
behin'  deze  lion-tails— an7  I  ?m  in  it, 
some  way." 

So  he  would  talk  over  the  picture, 
every  time  weakly  resolving  to  go  back 
into  the  dim  rooms  behind  the  heavy  cur 
tains,  not  expecting  to  find  the  visitants 
there,  for,  of  course,  they  would  have 
gone  long  ago,  but  just  to  see  how  they 
came  and  went,  for  certainly  some  part 
of  the  place  must  have  been  accidentally 
[in] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

left  open.  Of  course,  he  knew  that  chim 
neys  would  serve,  or  chinks  in  the  wall, 
—but  he  could  not  understand  how  the 
young  lady's  gown  could  have  come 
through  so — without  a  crinkle. 

Eound  and  round  the  house  he  would 
go,  counting  windows  and  chimney-tops, 
trying  to  locate  the  vision  against  some 
fortunate  time  of  opportunity  and  cour 
age.  He  had  had  both,  but  they  had 
never  come  together. 

The  curtains  were  sometimes  drawn 
aside  in  the  parlors,  and  on  bright  days, 
too,  when  one  should  be  brave;  but  at 
such  times,  he  always  found  himself  1 1  on 
the  far  side  of  the  house, ' '  frightened  at 
the  bare  possibility  of  a  temptation  to 
investigate  the  mystery. 

It  was  generally  about  midnight,  when 
all  the  doors  were  locked,  that  he  felt 
" brave  as  a  live  lion"— then,  or  while 
[112] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

he  rode  as  footman  with  the  old  lady  in 
her  daily  drives,  an  indulgence  which  she 
occasionally  granted  as  a  reward  of  good 
behavior. 

Daily  familiarity  with  the  ear-trumpet 
into  which  he  said  spelling  and  reading 
lessons,  and  after  a  while  had  even 
learned  to  repeat  his  answers  from  the 
" children's  shorter  catechism, "  had  long 
ago  robbed  it  of  all  terror  to  him.  * 

George  got  along  finely  in  his  position 
for  the  space  of  nearly  a  year. 

He  had  confided  to  Sarah,  after  a  long 
time  of  secret  suffering  through  fear,  the 
story  of  the  " haunt"  which  had  come  to 
him  in  one  of  the  great  rooms.  He  had 
not  shown  her  the  photograph  because 
of  simple  pride.  It  was  old— unframed 
—cheap-looking.  The  apparition  as 
against  a  word  picture,  which  is  in  a 
way  unlimited,  was,  he  felt,  far  more  un- 

[113] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

usual  and  impressive.  Sarah  was  super 
stitious  enough  to  have  fallen  in  with 
any  plausible  story  of  the  supernatural, 
but  her  real  opinion  in  this  case  was  that 
the  overcharged  mind  of  an  excited  child 
long  under  the  spell  of  a  special  picture 
of  life— had  simply  found  space  and  set 
ting  in  the  great  house  for  his  imagin 
ings,  and  she  frankly  told  him  so— in  her 
own  way,  of  course. 

"  Anything  '11  come  an'  stand  befo'  you 
ef  you  wanders  in  dimness— an'  keeps 
a-thinkin'  too  free— specially  ef  you  lives 
high  an'  don't  take  good  spring  brews. 
I  done  made  you  a  lot  o'  cinna 
mon-root  tea,  an'  ef  you  '11  drink  some 
every  night  an'  mornin',  dey  won't  no 
ha'nts  bother  you." 

This  was  wholesome  treatment,  no 
doubt,  but  while  he  did  not  question  it— 
he  even  drank  the  nice  tea— the  boy 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

knew  better  than  to  attribute  his  vision  to 
any  physical  cause. 

Of  course,  there  were  lonely  and  other 
wise  trying  times  for  him,  and,  even 
while  sitting  bravely  upon  the  cold  back 
of  one  of  the  lions,  he  often  longed  for 
the  freedom  of  the  ragged  fellows  of  his 
own  age  who  passed  the  gate. 

There  was  a  great  dog  on  the  place— 
a  dog  that  lived  in  friendly  enough  rela 
tions  with  the  boy— an  ancient  collie  of 
superior  manners  and  a  particularly  im 
pressive  tail.  George  liked  the  old  fel 
low,  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Chau 
cer,  and,  indeed,  after  vainly  trying  to 
teach  him  a  few  gentle  tricks,  George  fell 
back  upon  a  single  success,  which  af 
forded  mild  amusement  to  the  other  ser 
vants,  and  was  finally  brought  to  the  front 
yard,  where  it  was  received  by  a  number 
of  guests  with  fine  applause— and  even  a 

[115] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

considerable  return  to  the  showman,  who 
was  bidden  to  ' i  pass  the  hat. ' ' 

The  trick,  which  really  never  failed, 
was  simply  to  throw  the  dog  a  bone,  at  the 
moment  calling,  i  i  Chaw,  sir ! " 

And  Chaucer  always  "  chawed. " 


[116] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    YOUNG   LADY   OF   THE   GOLD    HAKP 

A  LTHOUGH  George,  on  the  whole, 
/~\  rejoiced  in  the  good  fortune  which 
had  given  him  so  much — for  he  frankly 
assured  Sarah  that  he  had  "sho* 
touched  de  top-notch, ' '  there  were  nights 
when  the  white  iron  bed  in  the  little  room 
near  that  of  "ole  Mis'  "— so  he  had 
finally  learned  to  call  her— was  a  chill 
and  lonely  place.  There  were  stomach 
ache  times,  too,  when  he  positively 
yearned  for  the  only  maternal  touch  he 
had  ever  known. 

And  yet,  when  he  went  " home' '—to 
Sarah— each  week,  he  had  words  of 

[117] 

8 — George  Washington  Jones, 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

praise  and  pride  only  for  her  as  to  hia 
happiness  and  well-being.  Kind  words 
for  her,  too,  while  he  pressed  upon  her  a 
goodly  share  of  his  slowly  increasing 
wages. 

On  one  or  two  of  their  visits,  the  boy 
found  Sarah  somewhat  lame,  though  un 
complaining,  beyond  her  habit  of  being, 
more  or  less,  1 1  po  'ly,  thank  God ! ' '  and  it 
worried  him.  He  began  to  doubt  the 
righteousness  of  his  life,  and,  indeed,  he 
was  trying  to  decide  at  least  to  take  the 
old  lady,  his  benefactress,  into  his  confi 
dence  in  the  matter,  when  something  un 
usual  happened. 

His  lady  having  company,  George  had 
slipped  away  to  his  favorite  haunt,  be 
side  a  lily-pond  within  the  grounds,  over 
which  a  weeping-willow  threw  its  veil. 
Sitting  here  upon  the  grass  against  the 
tree-trunk,  his  broom  lying  idle  beside 
[118], 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

him,  he  took  out  his  old  photograph,  and 
in  a  moment  he  was  so  far  back  in  won 
der  that  a  light  step  at  his  side  gave  him 
first  warning  that  his  old  mistress  was 
approaching. 

"Let  me  see  it.  What  have  you  there, 
George  !  '  '  she  said,  calmly.  Then,  seeing 
the  boy's  embarrassment,  she  added: 
"Let  me  see  it."  As  she  spoke,  she 
slowly  seated  herself  upon  the  iron  bench 
which  George  had  eschewed  for  his 
better  seat  on  the  grass,  and  then,  ar 
ranging  her  ear-trumpet  on  her  lap,  and 
having  adjusted  her  glasses,  she  took  the 
photograph  from  the  boy's  hand. 

To  say  that  she  suddenly  turned  very 
white  and  was  in  actual  danger  of  falling 
is  but  a  feeble  description  of  its  effect 
upon  her  when  she  had  given  the  picture 
a  single  glance. 


[119] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

It  was  vain  to  try  to  speak,  and  when 
she  essayed  to  fix  her  trumpet  in  her  ear, 
her  hand  trembled  so  that  she  could  not, 
but  George,  brought  suddenly  to  intelli 
gent  action  by  her  distress,  deftly  placed 
the  trumpet  as  it  belonged,  and,  adjust 
ing  the  mouthpiece  to  his  lips,  said, 
clearly : 

"Dat  's  des  my  gran 'pa's  picture— 
dat  little  black  boy,  to  one  side." 

His  hearer  looked  at  him,  as  one  peer 
ing  into  a  mist,  but  presently  she  said, 
as  if  really  distrait: 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  say  dat  I  keeps  dis  caze  my 
gran 'pa,  he  lef '  it  to  me.  De  little  black 
boy  in  it— dat  's  him— leastways,  it  was 
when  it  was  took. ' ' 

' 'Sit  down  here— beside  me— boy.  I 
have  much  to  say  to  you.  Who— who— 
who  is  the  lady  in  this  picture  ? ' ' 

[120] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

' '  Oh,  I  knows  who  she  is.  She  was  his 
mistus.  He  callt  her  'Mis'  Genevieve.' 
Does  you  know  her  ? ' ' 

For  answer,  she  could  only  lay  her 
thin,  blue-white  hand  upon  the  boy's 
knee. 

But  presently,  closing  her  eyes,  she 
said,  slowly: 

"She — was — my — mother.  Wh — why 
have  you  not  told  me  all  this  before!" 

' '  Lordy,  mistus !  I  ain  't  knowed  it  tel ' 
dis  minute. ' ' 

The  child  began  to  cry. 

"I  knowed— I  knowed  dey  was  som- 
'h'n'  nother  mighty  peculius  about  dis 
house— caze  dem  rock  lions  use  to  seem 
to  call  to  me  all  de  time— an'  I  done  had 
—I  done  had  a  vision,  too— yas  'm,  I  is ! " 

Wiping  her  glasses,  and  then  her  eyes, 
the  old  lady  had  taken  the  trumpet  into 
her  hand. 

[121] 


GEOKGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"What  vision  have  you  had,  George, 
boy— be  careful  about  these  things.  I 
may  have  not  to  believe  you— in  this." 

"Yas  'm,  I  know  'm— but  you  '11  haf 
to  b  'lieve  me  when  I  tell  you  all  about  it, 
you  sho  will,  ole  mis '. 

"You  see,  dey  ain't  no  harp  in  dis  pic 
ture,  don't  yer?  Well,  Mis'  Genevieve, 
she  used  to  play  on  a  gol'  harp— gran 'pa 
sesso,  an'  he  ain't  no  liar— an',  well,  all 
I  got  to  say  is,  she  come  to  me  one  night 
when  the  sun  was  sca'cely  down— her  an' 
gran 'pa  an'  dat  same  dorg— in  one  o' 
yo'  granjer-rooms,  mongst  dem  statutes 
an'  things.  I  know  dat  dog's  name,  too. 
She  name  'Consolation'—" 

"Yes— she  was  Chaucer's  great-grand 
mother.  We  always  kept  her  beautiful 
pups. ' ' 

"What  you  say,  mistus?  Look  like 
I  'm  way  back  yonder,  lost  in  some  kind 

[122] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

o'  cu'yers  gyarden,  wid— wid— wid  our 
folks — but  I  misses — I  misses  my  ole 
gran 'pa." 

Great,  noble  tears  bleared  the  old 
lady's  glasses  as  she  took  the  boy's  free 
hand  firmly  in  hers  while  she  said : 

"Yes,  and  so  you  are,  George— indeed, 
you  are  back  among  your  folks— we  are 
your  people,  in  truth.  My  blessed 
mother— she  died  in  all  her  youth  and 
beauty,  much  as  you  see  her  in  this  pic 
ture—bequeathed  his  freedom  and  a  little 
income  to  your  grandfather,  and  he 
studied  and  became  a  preacher,  didn't 


"Yas  'm,  but  he  got  de  slow  consump 
tion,  an'  dat  turned  him  into  a  wood- 
sawyer.  My  daddy  was  snakebit,  geth- 
erin'  berries,  an',  well— I  don't  know 
much  'bout  my  mammy.  Gran 'pa  say 
she  had  foreign  ways,  so  she  went  trav- 

[123] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

elin'— but  my  gran'pa—I  wush  't  you 
could  'a'  seen  him— an'  heerd  'im  talk. 
He  use'  to  say  he  could  preach  Christ, 
hoa'se  as  he  was,  acrost  a  saw-horse  to 
anybody  at  de  wood-pile  wid  time  to 
listen,  ef  he  did  haf  to  leave  de  pulpit— 
an9 1  tell  you,  mistus,  he  could,  too.  An' 
he  's  in  heaven  now,  lessen  somebody  tol ' 
Gord  lies  on  'im.  An'  I  don't  b'lieve 
Gord'  d  listen  to  'em. 

"But  he  always  warned  me  dat  my 
folks  belonged  to  de  quality— an'  not  for 
me  to  tek  up  wid  no  secon '-rates— an ?  I 
wouldn't,  nuther." 


[124] 


I 


CHAPTEE  XI 

A  BOY  GEANDFATHER 

T  was  about  eight  o'clock— just  after 
dinner— when  the  old  lady  called 
George  to  her.  She  had  bade  the  maid 
light  up  the  parlor-side  of  the  house. 

When  the  boy  came  to  her,  she  said : 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  in  to  where 
you  saw  your  vision,  George,  and  I  am 
sure  the  visit  will  give  you  pleasure  and 
pride,  too. 

"Your  photograph  is  one  of  a  small 
number  which  were  taken  from  a  large 
painting,  when  it  was  done.  Now,  you 
will  see  my  beautiful  young  mother,  not 
half  my  present  age,  for  I  am  nearly 

[125] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

sixty.  You  will  see  her  and  your  grand 
father  while  he  was  about  your  size— all 
painted  in  color  and— 

4 'But  what  about  de  harp?"  George 
was  fairly  panting  with  excitement. 

"That  is  there,  too;  but  come.  Don't 
be  in  a  hurry  to  understand  everything. 
Come  and  see. ' ' 

The  boy  was  very  small,  and,  half- 
affrighted  by  the  great  experience  of  the 
moment,  he  looked  appealingly  into  the 
old  lady's  face. 

For  answer,  she  took  his  hand  and, 
smiling,  led  him  in. 

The  lights  placed  as  best  to  exhibit  the 
beautiful  painting  were  all  lit,  and,  in 
deed,  to  more  discerning  eyes  than  poor 
George 's,  the  revelation  would  have  been 
extremely  beautiful  and  impressive,  even 
without  its  association. 

"Here  is  the  best  place  to  sit."    She 

[126] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

drew  a  low  stool  and  putting  him  upon  it, 
seated  herself  near. 

"Now,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "what 
about  the  vision,  little  boy  1 ' ' 

But  he  could  not  answer.  He  had 
begun  to  cry.  But  presently  he  whim 
pered  : 

"Ef  only  gran 'pa  could  be  looldn' 
down  at  us  dis  minute,  wouldn't  he  feel 
biggoty?  Seein'  you  an'  me  together!" 

"Maybe  he  can  look  down.  I  often 
feel  that  mother  sees  me  when  I  'm  here. 
It  is  a  sweet  place  to  come. ' ' 

"Yas  'm,  it  sho'  is!"  said  George,  into 
the  trumpet,  and  then  suddenly  he  began 
to  laugh  beyond  control,  but  when, 
finally  fearing  excessive  nervousness  for 
the  child,  the  mistress  suggested  their 
going  out,  he  conquered  the  mirth  which 
had  suddenly  surprised  himself,  enough 
to  explain: 

[127J 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"I  can't  git  over  de  set  o'  gran'- 
daddy's  dude  coat-tails  an'  de  broad  grin 
on  'im.  He  sho'  was  one  proud  little 
nigger.  A  man  like  dat  could  easy  be  a 
Christmas  gifV 

"So  you  know  how  that  happened  1 ' ' 

And  then,  sitting  here  before  the  proof 
of  all  his  claim,  the  boy  told  the  whole 
story  of  his  futile  efforts  to  "give  him 
self  away"  as  a  Christmas  gift  to  some 
lady  who  played  on  a  harp,  in  emulation 
of  the  boy  so  effectively  pictured  before 
him. 

This,  of  course,  led  easily  to  the  story 
of  Sarah  and  of  his  present  uneasiness 
concerning  her.  Then  of  his  resolve 
that,  since  she  had  thought  enough  of 
him  to  adopt  him  in  the  day  of  his  pov 
erty  and  helplessness,  he  felt  the  time  had 
come  when  he  ought  "in  a  manner  to 
adopt  her,"  actually  going  to  live  with 
[128] 


"  'A  man  like  dat  could  easy  be  a  Christmas-gif\" 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

her,  to  help  her  with  his  strong  hands  as. 
well  as  with  such  contribution  in  money 
as  he  could  easily  earn. 

"Let  us  go  now,  and  we  can  talk  this 
all  over  to-morrow, ' '  said  the  mistress, 
rising. 

' i  Bef  o '  we  goes,  please,  ma  'am,  may 
I  walk  up  an'  pass  my  han'  over  de  goF 
harp?"  he  asked,  timidly. 

"Certainly,  go."  It  came  with  qua 
vering  voice. 

He  was  beyond  the  range  of  the  ear- 
trumpet  now,  and  so,  when  he  had  felt 
along  the  gilt  edges,  and  even  run  his 
fingers  noiselessly  over  the  strings, 
he  passed  from  the  harp  to  the  paint 
ing.  Extending  his  fingers  near  it,  he 
looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  question- 
ingly. 

"May  I  touch  it?"  eyes  and  fingers 
said,  and  when  a  nod  had  answered  them, 

[129] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

the  boy,  advancing  timidly,  raised  his 
hand  and  petted  the  dog  about  the  neck ; 
then  drawing  down  his  fingers,  he 
touched  the  shimmering  gown  of  the  lady, 
touched  it  gingerly  here  and  there,  half 
caressingly  but  yet  fearing  to  harm  it. 

And  now,  moving  the  hand  further 
along,  he  placed  it  bravely  upon  the 
breast  of  the  boy— his  grandfather— over 
both  the  painted  hands  which  held  the 
painted  prayer-book. 

This  last  was  evidently  too  great  a 
strain  upon  his  young  emotions,  and 
when  he  had  felt  the  hands— even  fondly 
laying  both  his  own  upon  them— he  sud 
denly  began  to  shriek  aloud  in  a  veritable 
agony  of  passion : 

"Gran' pa!  Gran' pa!  I  'm  come! 
Does  you  reco'nize  me,  gran 'pa?  Heah 
yo '  boy !  An '  I  'M  ALL  EIGHT  !  I  DONE 

FOUN '  DE  FOLKS  ! ' ' 

£130] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

A  kind  hand  drew  the  child  away,  and 
as  he  passed  out,  it  held  him  firmly  while 
a  tender  voice  said : 

"Sh!  Don't  cry,  child— don't  cry!" 
Her  own  handkerchief  was  wet,  but  she 
was  used  to  control.  " Don't  expect  too 
much.  We  may  seem  to  see  our  loved 
ones  again  in  such  sweet  pictures  as  this, 
but  they  may  not  come  to  us.  If  we  are 
good  and  faithful,  some  day  we  may  go  to 
them.  Come,  boy, " 


[131] 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOW  IT  ALL  CAME  OUT 

PERHAPS  it  was  the  proudest  day  in 
Sarah's  life  when  the  carriage, 
with  liveried  attendants,  drove  up  to  her 
door  on  the  day  following  the  events  re 
lated  in  the  last  chapter. 

To  see  again  the  often-quoted  "Aunt 
Sarah,"  and  to  make  "proper  provis 
ion"  for  her  comfort  was  one  of  the  first 
impulses  of  George's  "folks"— other 
wise,  his  single  inherited  mistress. 

There  was  everything  to  attract  the 
intelligent  and  the  far-seeing  guest,  who 
accepted  the  chair,  hospitably  wiped 
with  the  hostess's  apron  before  it  was 

[132] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

offered,  and  although  the  gentle  woman 
had  gone  to  her  charged  with  kindly  feel 
ing  and  a  resolve  to  reach  out  a  hand  to 
her,  it  was  very  soon  apparent  that  the 
guest's  attitude  would  be  less  an  exten 
sion  of  the  hand  than  a  drawing  of  its 
beneficiary  to  her. 

Sarah  was  no  object  of  charity.  There 
were  snow-white  garments  piled  in  her 
cabin,  heaped  upon  a  pine  table  scoured 
to  an  almost  artificial  whiteness.  The 
little  back  yard  was  as  clean  as  the  linen 
bleaching  upon  its  clover. 

Sarah,  herself,  was  good  to  see— in 
her  immaculate  dress  and  her  good 
humor. 

It  all  came  very  suddenly  to  her— the 
news  of  the  honor  whicE  had  come  to  the 
boy  of  her  adoption— the  verification  of 
his  every  claim  by  the  rattling  equipage 
which  stood  actually  in  sight  of  the  whole 

[133] 

9 — George  Washington  Jones. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

street  at  her  door.  She  was  a  woman  of 
few  words,  but,  as  are  such,  sometimes, 
she  was  one  who  bore  herself  with  a 
simple,  unconscious  grace  on  trying  occa 
sions. 

She  was  "  proud  and  delighted "  at  the 
boy's  good  fortune.  She  appreciated 
the  great  lady's  offer  to  take  her  into  her 
service — giving  her  what  seemed  mu 
nificent  wages,  with  a  cabin,  big  enough 
for  herself  and  the  boy  of  her  adoption, 
in  a  corner  of  the  square  occupied  by  the 
home— a  bleaching-plot— a  front-back 
gate,  all  her  own— no  end  of  things. 

Still  the  woman,  bending  her  head  in 
acknowledgment  all  the  while,  could  not 
be  brought  in  this  first  interview  to  agree 
to  relinquish  an  intangible  and  remote 
but  cherished  commodity,  which  she 
called  "her  freedom." 

"You  sho'  is  payin'  me  a  great  com- 

[134] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

pliment,  ma'am— you  sho'  is,"  she  said, 
among  other  forms  of  protest,  or  objec 
tion,  "caze  I  mought  turn  out  bad,  for 
all  you  knows;  but  hit  ain't  dat. 

"I  kin  set  down  in  my  front  do'  an7 
count  de  spinnin '-spiders  in  my  vines  an' 
smoke  my  pipe,  any  day  I  feels  like  takin' 
a  rest— an'  dey  ain't  nobody  to  order  me 
to  rise  an'  shine— an'  you  see  I  'm  gittin' 
on  in  yeahs  now— an'  facin'  todes  de 
western  shore  o '  de  sea-blue  sky. 

1  'An'  every  evenin',  de  sun  sinks  into  it 
to  baptize  off  all  de  sin  he  's  been  lookin' 
on  all  day— an'  all  de  sorrer— so  as  to  be 
able  to  come  up  clear  an'  courageous  next 
mornin'.  An'  seem  like  my  soul  goes 
down  wid  'im— an'  den  I  sleeps  in  de 
under  world  whar  he  goes  tell  his  clair 
eye  strikes  my  bed  nex'  mornin'.  An' 
wid  nobody  to  call  me,  or  give  me  no 
orders,  I  sort  o'  lives  wid  Gord's  blessin' 

[135] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

by  de  sun,  an'  'g'in'  he  gits  in  de  high 
heavens,  he  gen 'ally  finds  me  singin'  an' 
rejoicin'. 

"I  watches  for  de  noon-day  hour  when 
I  can't  find  no  shadders  on  de  earth — an' 
I  say  to  myself :  '  He  shall  wash  all  tears 
f'om  yo'  eyes,  glory  hallelujah!  His 
glory  is  in  de  heavens ! ' 

"Den  I  wanes  in  peace  at  my  ironin'- 
boa'd  whilst  de  shade  creeps  over  my  lit 
tle  gyarden-beds— an'  so  it  goes. 

"I  thought  maybe  de  little  feller 
mought  'a'  been  sont  to  me—jes'  to  me 
—ma'am— but  all  de  planets  p'ints  de 
yether  way,  now,  an'  I  re j 'ices  in  his 
riches— so  I  gwine  peacen  my  sperit 
again,  and  give  'way  to  de  Lord 's  will. ' ' 

This  was  a  strong  spirit,  and  not  an 
easy  one  to  oppose. 

It  took  three  visits  from  the  old  lady, 
herself,  to  induce  Sarah  even  to  go  and 

[136] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

see  the  dainty  cabin  awaiting  her— facing 
the  east,  it  was  true,  instead  of  the  west, 
but  she  soon  saw  how  she  could  readjust 
herself,  going  to  bed  with  the  western 
light  upon  her  very  pillow  and  rising  to 
meet  the  morning. 

There  was,  she  confessed,  a  charm  in 
the  fresh  place,  but  when  she  went  up  to 
the  house  and  saw  the  great  picture  and 
the  real  harp,  while  her  heart  swelled 
with  pride  for  the  boy,  she  said  sadly : 

61  Yo'  gran 'daddy  favors  my  boy  mo  'n 
you  does,  George— but,  of  co'se,  you  an' 
de  madam,  heah,  an'  even  de  dorg,  is  got 
antsisters  in  de  picture— an'  I  'd  be  jes' 
a  comer  an'  goer,  to  look  at  y  'all's 
granjer  whenever  de  lady  'd  lemme  me 
step  above  my  place,  an'  my  heart  'd  be 
back  in  my  little  cabin  wid  the  shingle- 
patched  fence— an'  boy's  things  all 
strowed  aroun'." 

[137] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"Den,  of  co'se,"  answered  George,  and 
his  face  was  a  study  of  character  while 
he  said  it,  "of  co'se,  ole  mis',  you  see, 
I  '11  b'long  to  yon-all's  family  all  de 
same— but  Aunt  Sarah,  she  needs  me. 
She  got  a  quare  motion  of  her  lef  '-han* 
hip  when  she  turns  of  a  sudden.  I  don't 
'low  for  her  to  lif '  no  mo'  tubs  o'  washin' 
widout  me  to  take  a  hand— but,  please, 
ma'am,  don't  confine  me  to  no  special 
week-day  when  I  kin  come  to  see  you— 
an',  of  c'ose,  sence  you  got  dat  gol'  chain 
to  yo'  spec's,  dey  holds  to  yer  an' 
you  don't  need  me  so  constant— maybe— 
ef  you  sesso— I  could  come  an'  go 
—an'  keep  my  place— but  if  not,  Aunt 
Sarah-" 

The  woman,  Sarah,  had  followed  the 
boy's  words  with  bated  breath,  and  now, 
quieting  him  by  a  peremptory  wave  of 
her  hand,  she  turned  to  his  benefactress : 

[138] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"What  day  would  you  like  me  to  move 
in,  ma'am?"  she  asked  with  fine 
composure.  "You  see,  de  chile,  he  done 
got  me  whar  I  can't  take  him  or  leave 
him,  but  I  'H  f oiler  'im—an'  I  '11  try  to 
suit  you,  ma'am— wid  de  washin'.  I 
reckon  it  'd  take  me  a  day  or  so  to  pack 
—an',  of  co'se,  my  gyarden—  " 

"Is  just  planted,  I  know.  How  nice 
for  whoever  rents  the  place  next!  But 
why  move  your  furniture!  Why  not 
take  anything  you  particularly  care  for 
—and  sell  the  rest?  Your  cabin  shall 
all  be  new  and  fresh.  Maybe  some  poor 
people  will  come  after  you,  and  those 
things  would  be  useful  to  them. ' 9 

"I  knows  a  mighty  needful  family  o? 
folks  whar  I  stayed  de  few  days  after 
gran 'daddy  died— Aunt  Ca'line  Walker 
—an'  she  got  a  whole  passel  o'  chill  en  an* 
mighty  little  yard-room,  let  alone  gyar- 

[139] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

den,"   George   impulsively  put  in,  not 
hesitating  until  lie  had  done. 

The  detail  of  moving  is  in  its  very 
phraseology  suggestive  of  weariness  and 
confusion. 

Of  course,  Sarah  was  soon  comfortably 
housed  in  the  cabin  prepared  for  her,  and 
her  mistress's  assurance  that  she  should 
be  responsible  for  the  laundry-work 
alone,  taking  her  own  time  up  to  the 
weekly  accounting  for  the  same,  with  its 
surer  and  better  pay,  made  the  place,  in 
every  sense,  a  promotion. 

And  she  had  the  boy,  too,  "to  memor 
ize  her  of  her  own,  whilst  he  drawed  her 
to  hisself,"  as  she  put  it— and  he  lifted 
many  a  small  burden  for  her.  He  had 
even  taken  up  and  replanted  her  choicest 
flowering  vines  and  shrubs  for  her,  care 
fully  filling  and  leveling  the  ground  from 

[140] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

which  they  came,  so  that  when  Caroline 
and  her  brood  should  come,  it  might  not 
seem  denuded.  (And  they  came  without 
delay,  "so  that  the  happiness  in  it 
might  not  have  time  to  cool.") 

Sarah's  mind  could  never  compass  a 
realization  of  the  great  wealth  which 
would  warrant  so  lavish  expenditure  as 
the  purchase  of  all  her  furniture  and  its 
unreserved  presentation  to  the  needy  in 
coming  tenants. 

The  quiet  elegance  of  the  home,  of 
which  she  very  soon  felt  herself  a  part, 
stimulated  her  pride,  and  the  old  linens 
and  fine  lace  draperies  of  the  house  came 
from  her  nimble  and  shapely  fingers 
"jes'  like  new,  only  better,"  really,  as 
she  claimed. 

"I  washes  time  out  o'  old  things  an' 
de  shop  scent  out  o*  new  ones,'7  she  liked 
to  boast,  "an'  in  de  place  o'  de  smell  of 

[141] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

must  or  dust,  I  sends  'em  in  sweet  as 
new  grass/' 

The  story  is  told— so  far  as  a  story 
need  be,  answering  its  beginning.  What 
happened  after ;  how  George  studied,  in 
his  own  way ;  how,  at  last,  in  a  romantic 
turn  of  the  tale,  he  came  to  own  the  gold 
harp,  and  what  he  did  with  it;  how  this 
and  that  and  the  other  happened— 

There  are  no  end  of  stories  which  start 
at  intervals  along  the  stem  of  any  worthy 
tale,  like  offshoots  from  a  live  branch, 
each  with  its  bud  and  flower  of  romance 
at  the  apex. 

It  does  seem  worth  the  turning  back, 
just  a  minute,  to  relate  how  George  went 
to  Caroline's,  to  bear  his  lady's  invita 
tion  to  her.  When  the  old  lady  author 
ized  his  bearing  the  message  (and  he  was 
eager  to  go),  her  face  suddenly  lit  with 
the  spirit  of  fun,  while  she  said : 

[142] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

" Don't  go  yet,  George.  I  shall  go  for 
a  drive  this  evening"— she  meant  after 
noon—  " and  you  may  go  with  me." 

"You  mean  you  gwine  drive  'way  out 
yonder,  past  dem  blackberry  hedges  an' 
de  palmetter-swamp !  Dey  so  many  my- 
color  chillen,  an'  tin  cans  an'  ole  shoes 
layin'  roun'— an'— an'  goats— an'  Aunt 
Ca 'line, she  ain't  nothin'  but  poor.  She  '11 
work  one  week  an'  rest  two.  She  ain't 
like  my  Aunt  Sarah.  An'— an'  dat's 
mighty  bad  travelin',  ole  Mis',  for  yo' 
span  o '  horses.  Dey  won't  take  no  pride 
in  dat  journey,  I  know." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  the  horses, 
George,"  she  laughed.  "I  was  thinking 
that,  possibly,  as  you  say  you  have  never 
told  them  what  your  Christmas  gift  was, 
last  year,  they  might  ask  you  again. ' ' 

And  George,  his  face  in  a  broad  grin, 
answered : 

[143] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

"No  'm,  I  ain't  no  mo  'n  sont  'em 
word  I  was  doin'  fine,  an'  dey  mought 
keep  so-an'-so,  what  I  lef  dar  for  my 
tliree  days'  boa'd.  Lordy!  So  dey 
might."  Then,  growing  more  sober,  he 
asked : 

"Does  Christmas  gif's  ever  come  de 
day  arter  Christmas  ? ' ' 

i  l  Certainly ;  they  are  often  a  little  late 
—detained  on  the  way." 

"Den,  by  jimminy!  I  got  'em!  Even 
ef  dey  don't  ax  me,  I  '11  git  it  all  in. 
I  '11  git  even  wid  dat  'n  what  gimme  dat 
reluctioned  blow  on  his  whistle— an'  de 
gal  wha'  lemme  bite  de  stomach  out  'n 
her  candy  cow— an'  all  de  rest— an'  I  '11 
say,  'By  the  way,  talkin'  'bout  Christ 
mas  gif  's,  I  tol'  y'  all,  I  went  for  mine, 
you  ricollec'f  Well,  yonder  it  is/  an' 
I  '11  p'int  to  you  an'  de  rig.  An'  ef  dey 
dares  to  'spute  me,  I  '11  call  'em  out  to 

[144] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

yo'  ca'iage  do',  please,  ma'am,  an'  yon 
back  me  wid  de  story— jes'  shortened  up, 
little  like  bird-shot.  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
nobody.  Dey-all,  dey  's  good  an'  char 
itable—but  they  didn't  make  no  proper 
'lowance  for  me  dat  Christmas.  She 
could  'a'  baked  me  one  dorg-cake  wid 
sugar  on  it!  Or  even  cut  a  hole  in  one 
to  mark  it  for  me,  even  ef  she  give  de 
baby  my  mark  out  o'  my  middle." 

And  so  it  all  happened— the  visit- 
reminiscences— all.  Instead  of  feeling 
as  people  generally  feel  after  receiving 
a  volley,  however,  George's  friends 
seemed  all  made  happy  by  his  grand 
eur,  for,  while  the  wheels  rolled  away, 
Caroline  was  heard  to  say : 

"Well,  who 'd 'a 'thought  it!  De  ole 
man  toP  de  clair  truth,  arter  all."  And 
as  she  looked  across  into  the  waste  of 

[145] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

green  beyond  the  rubbish  about  her  cabin, 
she  laughed :  "Lordy  me !  I  wush-t  all 
dem  palmetters  had  eyes  in  all  dey  p  'ints. 
Only  cle  blind  Aunt  Bella,  to  see  granjer 
at  my  gate— an7  she  couldn't  see  it." 

"Huccome  you  reckon  he  thought 
about  fetchin'  deze  whistles  an'  candy 
cows  along,  mammy?"  said  one  of  the 
children.  "Dey  sho'  does  blow  loud  an' 
tas'e  sweet." 

"Can't  prove  it  by  me,  chill  en,"  Caro 
line  answered.  "George  allus  was  one 
cu'yus  little  nigger." 

It  might  be  said  that  the  boy  George, 
having  known  only  poverty  and  depriva 
tion  during  his  early  years  while  he  fol 
lowed  his  aged  relative  from  one  wood 
pile  to  another,  could  scarcely  have 
realized  higher  conditions. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  that  the 

[146] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  JONES 

actual  conditions  of  life  count  for  very 
little  to  those  whose  castles  are  in  Spain, 
where  they  live  in  affluence,  undisturbed 
by  life's  vicissitudes.  And  this  Spain  is 
of  rather  uncertain  geographical  loca 
tion,  too. 

Sometimes,  as  in  the  old  black  man's 
case,  it  is  far  back  in  the  memory-coun 
try,  while  with  others,  particularly  the 
younger  inhabitants,  it  lies  high  ahead 
upon  the  sun-lit  mountains  of  hope. 


[147] 


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